Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  III

  On Monday Poirot was out all day, but when he returned in the evening he flung himself into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Hastings, shall I recount to you a little history? A story after your own heart and which will remind you of your favourite cinema?”

  “Go ahead,” I laughed. “I presume that it is a true story, not one of your efforts of fancy.”

  “It is true enough. Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard will vouch for its accuracy, since it was through his kind offices that it came to my ears. Listen, Hastings. A little over six months ago some important Naval plans were stolen from an American Government department. They showed the position of some of the most important Harbour defences, and would be worth a considerable sum to any foreign Government—that of Japan, for example. Suspicion fell upon a young man named Luigi Valdarno, an Italian by birth, who was employed in a minor capacity in the Department and who was missing at the same time as the papers. Whether Luigi Valdarno was the thief or not, he was found two days later on the East Side in New York, shot dead. The papers were not on him. Now for some time past Luigi Valdarno had been going about with a Miss Elsa Hardt, a young concert singer who had recently appeared and who lived with a brother in an apartment in Washington. Nothing was known of the antecedents of Miss Elsa Hardt, and she disappeared suddenly about the time of Valdarno’s death. There are reasons for believing that she was in reality an accomplished international spy who has done much nefarious work under various aliases. The American Secret Service, while doing their best to trace her, also kept an eye upon certain insignificant Japanese gentlemen living in Washington. They felt pretty certain that, when Elsa Hardt had covered her tracks sufficiently, she would approach the gentlemen in question. One of them left suddenly for England a fortnight ago. On the face of it, therefore, it would seem that Elsa Hardt is in England.” Poirot paused, and then added softly: “The official description of Elsa Hardt is: Height 5 ft. 7, eyes blue, hair auburn, fair complexion, nose straight, no special distinguishing marks.”

  “Mrs. Robinson!” I gasped.

  “Well, there is a chance of it, anyhow,” amended Poirot. “Also I learn that a swarthy man, a foreigner of some kind, was inquiring about the occupants of No. 4 only this morning. Therefore, mon ami, I fear that you must forswear your beauty sleep tonight, and join me in my all-night vigil in that flat below—armed with that excellent revolver of yours, bien entendu!”

  “Rather,” I cried with enthusiasm. “When shall we start?”

  “The hour of midnight is both solemn and suitable, I fancy. Nothing is likely to occur before then.”

  At twelve o’clock precisely, we crept cautiously into the coal lift and lowered ourselves to the second floor. Under Poirot’s manipulation, the wooden door quickly swung inwards, and we climbed into the flat. From the scullery we passed into the kitchen where we established ourselves comfortably in two chairs with the door into the hall ajar.

  “Now we have but to wait,” said Poirot contentedly, closing his eyes.

  To me, the waiting appeared endless. I was terrified of going to sleep. Just when it seemed to me that I had been there about eight hours—and had, as I found out afterwards, in reality been exactly one hour and twenty minutes—a faint scratching sound came to my ears. Poirot’s hand touched mine. I rose, and together we moved carefully in the direction of the hall. The noise came from there. Poirot placed his lips to my ear.

  “Outside the front door. They are cutting out the lock. When I give the word, not before, fall upon him from behind and hold him fast. Be careful, he will have a knife.”

  Presently there was a rending sound, and a little circle of light appeared through the door. It was extinguished immediately and then the door was slowly opened. Poirot and I flattened ourselves against the wall. I heard a man’s breathing as he passed us. Then he flashed on his torch, and as he did so, Poirot hissed in my ear:

  “Allez.”

  We sprang together, Poirot with a quick movement enveloped the intruder’s head with a light woollen scarf whilst I pinioned his arms. The whole affair was quick and noiseless. I twisted a dagger from his hand, and as Poirot brought down the scarf from his eyes, whilst keeping it wound tightly round his mouth, I jerked up my revolver where he could see it and understand that resistance was useless. As he ceased to struggle Poirot put his mouth close to his ear and began to whisper rapidly. After a minute the man nodded. Then enjoining silence with a movement of the hand, Poirot led the way out of the flat and down the stairs. Our captive followed, and I brought up the rear with the revolver. When we were out in the street, Poirot turned to me.

  “There is a taxi waiting just round the corner. Give me the revolver. We shall not need it now.”

  “But if this fellow tries to escape?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “He will not.”

  I returned in a minute with the waiting taxi. The scarf had been unwound from the stranger’s face, and I gave a start of surprise.

  “He’s not a Jap,” I ejaculated in a whisper to Poirot.

  “Observation was always your strong point, Hastings! Nothing escapes you. No, the man is not a Jap. He is an Italian.”

  We got into the taxi, and Poirot gave the driver an address in St. John’s Wood. I was by now completely fogged. I did not like to ask Poirot where we were going in front of our captive, and strove in vain to obtain some light upon the proceedings.

  We alighted at the door of a small house standing back from the road. A returning wayfarer, slightly drunk, was lurching along the pavement and almost collided with Poirot, who said something sharply to him which I did not catch. All three of us went up the steps of the house. Poirot rang the bell and motioned us to stand a little aside. There was no answer and he rang again and then seized the knocker which he plied for some minutes vigorously.

  A light appeared suddenly above the fanlight, and the door opened cautiously a little way.

  “What the devil do you want?” a man’s voice demanded harshly.

  “I want the doctor. My wife is taken ill.”

  “There’s no doctor here.”

  The man prepared to shut the door, but Poirot thrust his foot in adroitly. He became suddenly a perfect caricature of an infuriated Frenchman.

  “What you say, there is no doctor? I will have the law of you. You must come! I will stay here and ring and knock all night.”

  “My dear sir—” The door was opened again, the man, clad in a dressing gown and slippers, stepped forward to pacify Poirot with an uneasy glance round.

  “I will call the police.”

  Poirot prepared to descend the steps.

  “No, don’t do that for Heaven’s sake!” The man dashed after him.

  With a neat push Poirot sent him staggering down the steps. In another minute all three of us were inside the door and it was pushed to and bolted.

  “Quick—in here.” Poirot led the way into the nearest room, switching on the light as he did so. “And you—behind the curtain.”

  “Si, Signor,” said the Italian and slid rapidly behind the full folds of rose-coloured velvet which draped the embrasure of the window.

  Not a minute too soon. Just as he disappeared from view a woman rushed into the room. She was tall with reddish hair and held a scarlet kimono round her slender form.

  “Where is my husband?” she cried, with a quick frightened glance. “Who are you?”

  Poirot stepped forward with a bow.

  “It is to be hoped your husband will not suffer from a chill. I observed that he had slippers on his feet, and that his dressing gown was a warm one.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

  “It is true that none of us have the pleasure of your acquaintance, madame. It is especially to be regretted as one of our number has come specially from New York in order to meet you.”

  The curtains parted and the Italian stepped out. To my horror I observed that he was brandishing my revolver, wh
ich Poirot must doubtless have put down through inadvertence in the cab.

  The woman gave a piercing scream and turned to fly, but Poirot was standing in front of the closed door.

  “Let me by,” she shrieked. “He will murder me.”

  “Who was it dat croaked Luigi Valdarno?” asked the Italian hoarsely, brandishing the weapon, and sweeping each one of us with it. We dared not move.

  “My God, Poirot, this is awful. What shall we do?” I cried.

  “You will oblige me by refraining from talking so much, Hastings. I can assure you that our friend will not shoot until I give the word.”

  “Youse sure o’ dat, eh?” said the Italian, leering unpleasantly.

  It was more than I was, but the woman turned to Poirot like a flash.

  “What is it you want?”

  Poirot bowed.

  “I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hardt’s intelligence by telling her.”

  With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat which served as a cover for the telephone.

  “They are stitched in the lining of that.”

  “Clever,” murmured Poirot appreciatively. He stood aside from the door. “Good evening, madame. I will detain your friend from New York whilst you make your getaway.”

  “Whatta fool!” roared the big Italian, and raising the revolver he fired point-blank at the woman’s retreating figure just as I flung myself upon him.

  But the weapon merely clicked harmlessly and Poirot’s voice rose in mild reproof.

  “Never will you trust your old friend, Hastings. I do not care for my friends to carry loaded pistols about with them and never would I permit a mere acquaintance to do so. No, no, mon ami.” This to the Italian who was swearing hoarsely. Poirot continued to address him in a tone of mild reproof: “See now, what I have done for you. I have saved you from being hanged. And do not think that our beautiful lady will escape. No, no, the house is watched, back and front. Straight into the arms of the police they will go. Is not that a beautiful and consoling thought? Yes, you may leave the room now. But be careful—be very careful. I—Ah, he is gone! And my friend Hastings looks at me with eyes of reproach. But it’s all so simple! It was clear, from the first, that out of several hundred, probably, applicants for No. 4 Montagu Mansions, only the Robinsons were considered suitable. Why? What was there that singled them out from the rest—at practically a glance. Their appearance? Possibly, but it was not so unusual. Their name, then!”

  “But there’s nothing unusual about the name of Robinson,” I cried. “It’s quite a common name.”

  “Ah! Sapristi, but exactly! That was the point. Elsa Hardt and her husband, or brother or whatever he really is, come from New York, and take a flat in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. Suddenly they learn that one of these secret societies, the Mafia, or the Camorra, to which doubtless Luigi Valdarno belonged, is on their track. What do they do? They hit on a scheme of transparent simplicity. Evidently they knew that their pursuers were not personally acquainted with either of them. What, then, can be simpler? They offer the flat at an absurdly low rental. Of the thousands of young couples in London looking for flats, there cannot fail to be several Robinsons. It is only a matter of waiting. If you will look at the name of Robinson in the telephone directory, you will realize that a fair-haired Mrs. Robinson was pretty sure to come along sooner or later. Then what will happen? The avenger arrives. He knows the name, he knows the address. He strikes! All is over, vengeance is satisfied, and Miss Elsa Hardt has escaped by the skin of her teeth once more. By the way, Hastings, you must present me to the real Mrs. Robinson—that delightful and truthful creature! What will they think when they find their flat has been broken into! We must hurry back. Ah, that sounds like Japp and his friends arriving.”

  A mighty tattoo sounded on the knocker.

  “How do you know this address?” I asked as I followed Poirot out into the hall. “Oh, of course, you had the first Mrs. Robinson followed when she left the other flat.”

  “A la bonne heure, Hastings. You use your grey cells at last. Now for a little surprise for Japp.”

  Softly unbolting the door, he stuck the cat’s head round the edge and ejaculated a piercing “Miaow.”

  The Scotland Yard inspector, who was standing outside with another man, jumped in spite of himself.

  “Oh, it’s only Monsieur Poirot at one of his little jokes!” he exclaimed, as Poirot’s head followed that of the cat. “Let us in, moosior.”

  “You have our friends safe and sound?”

  “Yes, we’ve got the birds all right. But they hadn’t got the goods with them.”

  “I see. So you come to search. Well, I am about to depart with Hastings, but I should like to give you a little lecture upon the history and habits of the domestic cat.”

  “For the Lord’s sake, have you gone completely balmy?”

  “The cat,” declaimed Poirot, “was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. It is still regarded as a symbol of good luck if a black cat crosses your path. This cat crossed your path tonight, Japp. To speak of the interior of any animal or any person is not. I know, considered polite in England. But the interior of this cat is perfectly delicate. I refer to the lining.”

  With a sudden grunt, the second man seized the cat from Poirot’s hand.

  “Oh, I forgot to introduce you,” said Japp. “Mr. Poirot, this is Mr. Burt of the United States Secret Service.”

  The American’s trained fingers had felt what he was looking for. He held out his hand, and for a moment speech failed him. Then he rose to the occasion.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Burt.

  Eleven

  THE MYSTERY OF HUNTER’S LODGE

  “The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge” was first published in The Sketch, May 16, 1923.

  After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.”

  Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows, his head muffled in a woollen shawl, and was slowly sipping a particularly noxious tisane which I had prepared according to his directions. His eye rested with pleasure upon a neatly graduated row of medicine bottles which adorned the mantelpiece.

  “Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure to yourself, mon ami, that I have a little paragraph to myself in Society Gossip. But yes! Here it is: ‘Go it—criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot—and believe me, girls, he’s some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on you. ’Cause why? ’Cause he’s got la grippe himself!’ ”

  I laughed.

  “Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this time.”

  “That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret.”

  Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.

  “There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see Monsieur Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do—and with all that quite the gentleman—I brought up ’is card.”

  She handed me a bit of pasteboard. “Mr. Roger Havering,” I read.

  Poirot motioned with his head towards the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth Who’s Who. Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.

  “Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.”

  “H’m!” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the War.”

  “Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular little trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”

  Roger H
avering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance. His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently labouring under great agitation.

  “Captain Hastings? You are Monsieur Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in bed—influenza.”

  His face fell.

  “Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”

  “The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”

  “My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.”

  “Here in London?”

  “No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and beg Monsieur Poirot to undertake the case.”

  “If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.

  I rushed upstairs, and in a few brief words acquainted Poirot with the situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.

  “I see. I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not? You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should report to me fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I may wire you.”

  To this I willingly agreed.

  II

  An hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London.

  “To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter’s Lodge, where we are going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a small shooting box in the heart of the Derbyshire moors. Our real home is near Newmarket, and we usually rent a flat in town for the season. Hunter’s Lodge is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable of doing all we need when we run down for an occasional weekend. Of course, during the shooting season, we take down some of our own servants from Newmarket. My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss Pace of New York), has, for the last three years, made his home with us. He never got on well with my father, or my elder brother, and I suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his affection towards me. Of course I am a poor man, and my uncle was a rich one—in other words, he paid the piper! But, though exacting in many ways, he was not really hard to get on with, and we all three lived very harmoniously together. Two days ago, my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gaieties of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning I received this telegram.” He handed it over to me: