Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  Poirot nodded.

  “So she was last seen—when exactly?”

  “About ten minutes after the train left Amiens.” Japp coughed modestly. “She was last seen—er—entering the Toilette.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “Very natural.” He went on: “There is nothing else?”

  “Yes, one thing.” Japp’s face was grim. “Her hat was found by the side of the line—at a spot approximately fourteen miles from Amiens.”

  “But no body?”

  “No body.”

  Poirot asked:

  “What do you yourself think?”

  “Difficult to know what to think! As there’s no sign of her body—she can’t have fallen off the train.”

  “Did the train stop at all after leaving Amiens?”

  “No. It slowed up once—for a signal, but it didn’t stop, and I doubt if it slowed up enough for anyone to have jumped off without injury. You’re thinking that the kid got a panic and tried to run away? It was her first term and she might have been homesick, that’s true enough, but all the same she was fifteen and a half—a sensible age, and she’d been in quite good spirits all the journey, chattering away and all that.”

  Poirot asked:

  “Was the train searched?”

  “Oh yes, they went right through it before it arrived at the Nord station. The girl wasn’t on the train, that’s quite certain.”

  Japp added in an exasperated manner:

  “She just disappeared—into thin air! It doesn’t make sense, M. Poirot. It’s crazy!”

  “What kind of a girl was she?”

  “Ordinary, normal type as far as I can make out.”

  “I mean—what did she look like?”

  “I’ve got a snap of her here. She’s not exactly a budding beauty.”

  He proffered the snapshot to Poirot who studied it in silence.

  It represented a lanky girl with her hair in two limp plaits. It was not a posed photograph, the subject had clearly been caught unawares. She was in the act of eating an apple, her lips were parted, showing slightly protruding teeth confined by a dentist’s plate. She wore spectacles.

  Japp said:

  “Plain-looking kid—but then they are plain at that age! Was at my dentist’s yesterday. Saw a picture in the Sketch of Marcia Gaunt, this season’s beauty. I remember her at fifteen when I was down at the Castle over their burglary business. Spotty, awkward, teeth sticking out, hair all lank and anyhow. They grow into beauties overnight—I don’t know how they do it! It’s like a miracle.”

  Poirot smiled.

  “Women,” he said, “are a miraculous sex! What about the child’s family? Have they anything helpful to say?”

  Japp shook his head.

  “Nothing that’s any help. Mother’s an invalid. Poor old Canon King is absolutely bowled over. He swears that the girl was frightfully keen to go to Paris—had been looking forward to it. Wanted to study painting and music—that sort of thing. Miss Pope’s girls go in for Art with a capital A. As you probably know, Miss Pope’s is a very well-known establishment. Lots of society girls go there. She’s strict—quite a dragon—and very expensive—and extremely particular whom she takes.”

  Poirot sighed.

  “I know the type. And Miss Burshaw who took the girls over from England?”

  “Not exactly frantic with brains. Terrified that Miss Pope will say it’s her fault.”

  Poirot said thoughtfully:

  “There is no young man in the case?”

  Japp gesticulated towards the snapshot.

  “Does she look like it?”

  “No, she does not. But notwithstanding her appearance, she may have a romantic heart. Fifteen is not so young.”

  “Well,” said Japp. “If a romantic heart spirited her off that train, I’ll take to reading lady novelists.”

  He looked hopefully at Poirot.

  “Nothing strikes you—eh?”

  Poirot shook his head slowly. He said:

  “They did not, by any chance, find her shoes also by the side of the line?”

  “Shoes? No. Why shoes?”

  Poirot murmured:

  “Just an idea. . . .”

  II

  Hercule Poirot was just going down to his taxi when the telephone rang. He took off the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  Japp’s voice spoke.

  “Glad I’ve just caught you. It’s all off, old man. Found a message at the Yard when I got back. The girl’s turned up. At the side of the main road fifteen miles from Amiens. She’s dazed and they can’t get any coherent story from her, doctor says she’s been doped—However, she’s all right. Nothing wrong with her.”

  Poirot said slowly:

  “So you have, then, no need of my services?”

  “Afraid not! In fact—sorrrry you have been trrrroubled.”

  Japp laughed at his witticism and rang off.

  Hercule Poirot did not laugh. He put back the receiver slowly. His face was worried.

  III

  Detective Inspector Hearn looked at Poirot curiously.

  He said:

  “I’d no idea you’d be so interested, sir.”

  Poirot said:

  “You had word from Chief Inspector Japp that I might consult with you over this matter?”

  Hearn nodded.

  “He said you were coming over on some business, and that you’d give us a hand with this puzzle. But I didn’t expect you now it’s all cleared up. I thought you’d be busy on your own job.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “My own business can wait. It is this affair here that interests me. You called it a puzzle, and you say it is now ended. But the puzzle is still there, it seems.”

  “Well, sir, we’ve got the child back. And she’s not hurt. That’s the main thing.”

  “But it does not solve the problem of how you got her back, does it? What does she herself say? A doctor saw her, did he not? What did he say?”

  “Said she’d been doped. She was still hazy with it. Apparently, she can’t remember anything much after starting off from Cranchester. All later events seem to have been wiped out. Doctor thinks she might just possibly have had slight concussion. There’s a bruise on the back of her head. Says that would account for a complete blackout of memory.”

  Poirot said:

  “Which is very convenient for—someone!”

  Inspector Hearn said in a doubtful voice:

  “You don’t think she is shamming, sir?”

  “Do you?”

  “No, I’m sure she isn’t. She’s a nice kid—a bit young for her age.”

  “No, she is not shamming.” Poirot shook his head. “But I would like to know how she got off that train. I want to know who is responsible—and why?”

  “As to why, I should say it was an attempt at kidnapping, sir. They meant to hold her to ransom.”

  “But they didn’t!”

  “Lost their nerve with the hue and cry—and planted her by the road quick.”

  Poirot inquired sceptically:

  “And what ransom were they likely to get from a Canon of Cranchester Cathedral? English Church dignitaries are not millionaires.”

  Detective Inspector Hearn said cheerfully:

  “Made a botch of the whole thing, sir, in my opinion.”

  “Ah, that’s your opinion.”

  Hearn said, his face flushing slightly:

  “What’s yours, sir?”

  “I want to know how she was spirited off that train.”

  The policeman’s face clouded over.

  “That’s a real mystery, that is. One minute she was there, sitting in the dining car, chatting to the other girls. Five minutes later she’s vanished—hey presto—like a conjuring trick.”

  “Precisely, like a conjuring trick! Who else was there in the coach of the train where Miss Pope’s reserved compartments were?”

  Inspector Hearn nodded.

  “That’s a good point, si
r. That’s important. It’s particularly important because it was the last coach on the train and as soon as all the people were back from the restaurant car, the doors between the coaches were locked—actually so as to prevent people crowding along to the restaurant car and demanding tea before they’d had time to clear up lunch and get ready. Winnie King came back to the coach with the others—the school had three reserved compartments there.”

  “And in the other compartments of the coach?”

  Hearn pulled out his notebook.

  “Miss Jordan and Miss Butters—two middle-aged spinsters going to Switzerland. Nothing wrong with them, highly respectable, well known in Hampshire where they come from. Two French commercial travellers, one from Lyons, one from Paris. Both respectable middle-aged men. A young man, James Elliot, and his wife—flashy piece of goods she was. He’s got a bad reputation, suspected by the police of being mixed up in some questionable transactions—but has never touched kidnapping. Anyway, his compartment was searched and there was nothing in his hand luggage to show that he was mixed up in this. Don’t see how he could have been. Only other person was an American lady, Mrs. Van Suyder, travelling to Paris. Nothing known about her. Looks O.K. That’s the lot.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “And it is quite definite that the train did not stop after it left Amiens?”

  “Absolutely. It slowed down once, but not enough to let anyone jump off—not without damaging themselves pretty severely and risking being killed.”

  Hercule Poirot murmured:

  “That is what makes the problem so peculiarly interesting. The schoolgirl vanishes into thin air just outside Amiens. She reappears from thin air just outside Amiens. Where has she been in the meantime?”

  Inspector Hearn shook his head.

  “It sounds mad, put like that. Oh! by the way, they told me you were asking something about shoes—the girl’s shoes. She had her shoes on all right when she was found, but there was a pair of shoes on the line, a signalman found them. Took ’em home with him as they seemed in good condition. Stout black walking shoes.”

  “Ah,” said Poirot. He looked gratified.

  Inspector Hearn said curiously:

  “I don’t get the meaning of the shoes, sir? Do they mean anything?”

  “They confirm a theory,” said Hercule Poirot. “A theory of how the conjuring trick was done.”

  IV

  Miss Pope’s establishment was, like many other establishments of the same kind, situated in Neuilly. Hercule Poirot, staring up at its respectable façade, was suddenly submerged by a flow of girls emerging from its portals.

  He counted twenty-five of them, all dressed alike in dark blue coats and skirts with uncomfortable-looking British hats of dark blue velour on their heads, round which was tied the distinctive purple and gold of Miss Pope’s choice. They were of ages varying from fourteen to eighteen, thick and slim, fair and dark, awkward and graceful. At the end, walking with one of the younger girls, was a grey-haired, fussy looking woman whom Poirot judged to be Miss Burshaw.

  Poirot stood looking after them a minute, then he rang the bell and asked for Miss Pope.

  Miss Lavinia Pope was a very different person from her second-in-command, Miss Burshaw. Miss Pope had personality. Miss Pope was awe inspiring. Even should Miss Pope unbend graciously to parents, she would still retain that obvious superiority to the rest of the world which is such a powerful asset to a schoolmistress.

  Her grey hair was dressed with distinction, her costume was severe but chic. She was competent and omniscient.

  The room in which she received Poirot was the room of a woman of culture. It had graceful furniture, flowers, some framed, signed photographs of those of Miss Pope’s pupils who were of note in the world—many of them in their presentation gowns and feathers. On the walls hung reproductions of the world’s artistic masterpieces and some good watercolour sketches. The whole place was clean and polished to the last degree. No speck of dust, one felt, would have the temerity to deposit itself in such a shrine.

  Miss Pope received Poirot with the competence of one whose judgement seldom fails.

  “M. Hercule Poirot? I know your name, of course. I suppose you have come about this very unfortunate affair of Winnie King. A most distressing incident.”

  Miss Pope did not look distressed. She took disaster as it should be taken, dealing with it competently and thereby reducing it almost to insignificance.

  “Such a thing,” said Miss Pope, “has never occurred before.”

  “And never will again!” her manner seemed to say.

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “It was the girl’s first term, here, was it not?”

  “It was.”

  “You had a preliminary interview with Winnie—and with her parents?”

  “Not recently. Two years ago, I was staying near Cranchester—with the Bishop, as a matter of fact—”

  Miss Pope’s manner said:

  (“Mark this, please. I am the kind of person who stays with Bishops!”)

  “While I was there I made the acquaintance of Canon and Mrs. King. Mrs. King, alas, is an invalid. I met Winnie then. A very well brought up girl, with a decided taste for art. I told Mrs. King that I should be happy to receive her here in a year or two—when her general studies were completed. We specialize here, M. Poirot, in Art and Music. The girls are taken to the Opera, to the Comédie Française, they attend lectures at the Louvre. The very best masters come here to instruct them in music, singing, and painting. The broader culture, that is our aim.”

  Miss Pope remembered suddenly that Poirot was not a parent and added abruptly:

  “What can I do for you, M. Poirot?”

  “I would be glad to know what is the present position regarding Winnie?”

  “Canon King has come over to Amiens and is taking Winnie back with him. The wisest thing to do after the shock the child has sustained.”

  She went on:

  “We do not take delicate girls here. We have no special facilities for looking after invalids. I told the Canon that in my opinion he would do well to take the child home with him.”

  Hercule Poirot asked bluntly:

  “What in your opinion actually occurred, Miss Pope?”

  “I have not the slightest idea, M. Poirot. The whole thing, as reported to me, sounds quite incredible. I really cannot see that the member of my staff who was in charge of the girls was in any way to blame—except that she might, perhaps, have discovered the girl’s absence sooner.”

  Poirot said:

  “You have received a visit, perhaps, from the police?”

  A faint shiver passed over Miss Pope’s aristocratic form. She said glacially:

  “A Monsieur Lefarge of the Préfecture called to see me, to see if I could throw any light upon the situation. Naturally I was unable to do so. He then demanded to inspect Winnie’s trunk which had, of course, arrived here with those of the other girls. I told him that that had already been called for by another member of the police. Their departments, I fancy, must overlap. I got a telephone call, shortly afterwards, insisting that I had not turned over all Winnie’s possessions to them. I was extremely short with them over that. One must not submit to being bullied by officialdom.”

  Poirot drew a long breath. He said:

  “You have a spirited nature. I admire you for it, Mademoiselle. I presume that Winnie’s trunk had been unpacked on arrival?”

  Miss Pope looked a little put out of countenance.

  “Routine,” she said. “We live strictly by routine. The girls trunks are unpacked on arrival and their things put away in the way I expect them to be kept. Winnie’s things were unpacked with those of the other girls. Naturally, they were afterwards repacked, so that her trunk was handed over exactly as it had arrived.”

  Poirot said: “Exactly?”

  He strolled over to the wall.

  “Surely this is a picture of the famous Cranchester Bridge with the Cathedral showing in the
distance.”

  “You are quite right, M. Poirot. Winnie had evidently painted that to bring to me as a surprise. It was in her trunk with a wrapper round it and ‘For Miss Pope from Winnie’ written on it. Very charming of the child.”

  “Ah!” said Poirot. “And what do you think of it—as a painting?”

  He himself had seen many pictures of Cranchester Bridge. It was a subject that could always be found represented at the Academy each year—sometimes as an oil painting—sometimes in the watercolour room. He had seen it painted well, painted in a mediocre fashion, painted boringly. But he had never seen it quite as crudely represented as in the present example.

  Miss Pope was smiling indulgently.

  She said:

  “One must not discourage one’s girls, M. Poirot. Winnie will be stimulated to do better work, of course.”

  Poirot said thoughtfully:

  “It would have been more natural, would it not, for her to do a watercolour?”

  “Yes. I did not know she was attempting to paint in oils.”

  “Ah,” said Hercule Poirot. “You will permit me, Mademoiselle?”

  He unhooked the picture and took it to the window. He examined it, then, looking up, he said:

  “I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to give me this picture.”

  “Well, really, M. Poirot—”

  “You cannot pretend that you are very attached to it. The painting is abominable.”

  “Oh, it has no artistic merit, I agree. But it is a pupil’s work and—”

  “I assure you, Mademoiselle, that it is a most unsuitable picture to have hanging upon your wall.”

  “I don’t know why you should say that, M. Poirot.”

  “I will prove it to you in a moment.”

  He took a bottle, a sponge and some rags from his pocket. He said:

  “First I am going to tell you a little story, Mademoiselle. It has a resemblance to the story of the Ugly Duckling that turned into a Swan.”

  He was working busily as he talked. The odour of turpentine filled the room.

  “You do not perhaps go much to theatrical revues?”

  “No, indeed, they seem to me so trivial. . . .”

  “Trivial, yes, but sometimes instructive. I have seen a clever revue artist change her personality in the most miraculous way. In one sketch she is a cabaret star, exquisite and glamorous. Ten minutes later, she is an undersized, anæmic child with adenoids, dressed in a gym tunic—ten minutes later still, she is a ragged gypsy telling fortunes by a caravan.”