“Only I did not drink it!” said a placid voice.
We turned in amazement. Poirot was sitting up on the bed. He was smiling.
“No,” he said gently. “I did not drink it. While my good friend Hastings was apostrophizing the night, I took the opportunity of pouring it, not down my throat, but into a little bottle. That little bottle will go to the analytical chemist. No”—as the doctor made a sudden movement—“as a sensible man, you will understand that violence will be of no avail. During Hastings’ absence to fetch you, I have had time to put the bottle in safe keeping. Ah, quick, Hastings, hold him!”
I misunderstood Poirot’s anxiety. Eager to save my friend, I flung myself in front of him. But the doctor’s swift movement had another meaning. His hand went to his mouth, a smell of bitter almonds filled the air, and he swayed forward and fell.
“Another victim,” said Poirot gravely, “but the last. Perhaps it is the best way. He has three deaths on his head.”
“Dr. Ames?” I cried, stupefied. “But I thought you believed in some occult influence?”
“You misunderstood me, Hastings. What I meant was that I believe in the terrific force of superstition. Once get it firmly established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is the instinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race. I suspected from the first that a man was taking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine, with the death of Sir John Willard. A fury of superstition arose at once. As far as I could see, nobody could derive any particular profit from Sir John’s death. Mr. Bleibner was a different case. He was a man of great wealth. The information I received from New York contained several suggestive points. To begin with, young Bleibner was reported to have said he had a good friend in Egypt from whom he could borrow. It was tacitly understood that he meant his uncle, but it seemed to me that in that case he would have said so outright. The words suggest some boon companion of his own. Another thing, he scraped up enough money to take him to Egypt, his uncle refused outright to advance him a penny, yet he was able to pay the return passage to New York. Someone must have lent him the money.”
“All that was very thin,” I objected.
“But there was more. Hastings, there occur often enough words spoken metaphorically which are taken literally. The opposite can happen too. In this case, words which were meant literally were taken metaphorically. Young Bleibner wrote plainly enough: ‘I am a leper,’ but nobody realized that he shot himself because he believed that he contracted the dread disease of leprosy.”
“What?” I ejaculated.
“It was the clever invention of a diabolical mind. Young Bleibner was suffering from some minor skin trouble; he had lived in the South Sea Islands, where the disease is common enough. Ames was a former friend of his, and a well-known medical man, he would never dream of doubting his word. When I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Harper and Dr. Ames, but I soon realized that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the crimes, and I learn from Harper that he was previously acquainted with young Bleibner. Doubtless the latter at some time or another had made a will or had insured his life in favour of the doctor. The latter saw his chance of acquiring wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate Mr. Bleibner with the deadly germs. Then the nephew, overcome with despair at the dread news his friend had conveyed to him, shot himself. Mr. Bleibner, whatever his intentions, had made no will. His fortune would pass to his nephew and from him to the doctor.”
“And Mr. Schneider?”
“We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may have suspected something, or, again, the doctor may have thought that a further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychological fact, Hastings. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime, the performance of it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw tonight was Hassan dressed up by my orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take more than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he was not entirely taken in by my pretences of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavour to make me the next victim. Ah, but in spite of la mer maudite, the heat abominable, and the annoyances of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned!”
Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner, some years ago, in a fit of drunken merriment, had made a jocular will, leaving “my cigarette case you admire so much and everything else of which I die possessed which will be principally debts to my good friend Robert Ames who once saved my life from drowning.”
The case was hushed up as far as possible, and, to this day, people talk of the remarkable series of deaths in connection with the Tomb of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone king upon the desecrators of his tomb—a belief which, as Poirot pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.
Fourteen
THE VEILED LADY
“The Veiled Lady” was first published as “The Case of the Veiled Lady” in The Sketch, October 3, 1923.
I
I had noticed that for some time Poirot had been growing increasingly dissatisfied and restless. We had had no interesting cases of late, nothing on which my little friend could exercise his keen wits and remarkable powers of deduction. This morning he flung down the newspaper with an impatient “Tchah!”—a favourite exclamation of his which sounded exactly like a cat sneezing.
“They fear me, Hastings; the criminals of your England they fear me! When the cat is there, the little mice, they come no more to the cheese!”
“I don’t suppose the greater part of them even know of your existence,” I said, laughing.
Poirot looked at me reproachfully. He always imagines that the whole world is thinking and talking of Hercule Poirot. He had certainly made a name for himself in London, but I could hardly believe that his existence struck terror into the criminal world.
“What about that daylight robbery of jewels in Bond Street the other day?” I asked.
“A neat coup,” said Poirot approvingly, “though not in my line. Pas de finesse, seulement de l’audace! A man with a loaded cane smashes the plate-glass window of a jeweller’s shop and grabs a number of precious stones. Worthy citizens immediately seize him; a policeman arrives. He is caught red-handed with the jewels on him. He is marched off to the police, and then it is discovered that the stones are paste. He has passed the real ones to a confederate—one of the aforementioned worthy citizens. He will go to prison—true; but when he comes out, there will be a nice little fortune awaiting him. Yes, not badly imagined. But I could do better than that. Sometimes, Hastings, I regret that I am of such a moral disposition. To work against the law, it would be pleasing, for a change.”
“Cheer up, Poirot; you know you are unique in your own line.”
“But what is there on hand in my own line?”
I picked up the paper.
“Here’s an Englishman mysteriously done to death in Holland,” I said.
“They always say that—and later they find that he ate the tinned fish and that his death is perfectly natural.”
“Well, if you’re determined to grouse!”
“Tiens!” said Poirot, who had strolled across to the window. “Here in the street is what they call in novels a ‘heavily veiled lady.’ She mounts the steps; she rings the bell—she comes to consult us. Here is a possibility of something interesting. When one is as young and pretty as that one, one does not veil the face except for a big affair.”
A minute later our visitor was ushered in. As Poirot had said, she was indeed heavily veiled. It was impossible to distinguish her features until she raised her veil of black Spanish lace. Then I saw that Poirot’s intuition had been right; the lady was extr
emely pretty, with fair hair and blue eyes. From the costly simplicity of her attire, I deduced at once that she belonged to the upper strata of society.
“Monsieur Poirot,” said the lady in a soft, musical voice, “I am in great trouble. I can hardly believe that you can help me, but I have heard such wonderful things of you that I come literally as the last hope to beg you to do the impossible.”
“The impossible, it pleases me always,” said Poirot. “Continue, I beg of you, mademoiselle.”
Our fair guest hesitated.
“But you must be frank,” added Poirot. “You must not leave me in the dark on any point.”
“I will trust you,” said the girl suddenly. “You have heard of Lady Millicent Castle Vaughan?”
I looked up with keen interest. The announcement of Lady Millicent’s engagement to the young Duke of Southshire had appeared a few days previously. She was, I knew, the fifth daughter of an impecunious Irish peer, and the Duke of Southshire was one of the best matches in England.
“I am Lady Millicent,” continued the girl. “You may have read of my engagement. I should be one of the happiest girls alive; but oh, M. Poirot, I am in terrible trouble! There is a man, a horrible man—his name is Lavington; and he—I hardly know how to tell you. There was a letter I wrote—I was only sixteen at the time; and he—he—”
“A letter that you wrote to this Mr. Lavington?”
“Oh no—not to him! To a young soldier—I was very fond of him—he was killed in the war.”
I understand,” said Poirot kindly.
“It was a foolish letter, an indiscreet letter, but indeed, M. Poirot, nothing more. But there are phrases in it which—which might bear a different interpretation.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “And this letter has come into the possession of Mr. Lavington?”
“Yes, and he threatens, unless I pay him an enormous sum of money, a sum that is quite impossible for me to raise, to send it to the Duke.”
“The dirty swine!” I ejaculated. “I beg your pardon, Lady Millicent.”
“Would it not be wiser to confess all to your future husband?”
“I dare not, M. Poirot. The Duke is a rather peculiar character, jealous and suspicious and prone to believe the worst. I might as well break off my engagement at once.”
“Dear, dear,” said Poirot with an expressive grimace. “And what do you want me to do, milady?”
“I thought perhaps that I might ask Mr. Lavington to call upon you. I would tell him that you were empowered by me to discuss the matter. Perhaps you could reduce his demands.”
“What sum does he mention?”
“Twenty thousand pounds—an impossibility. I doubt if I could raise a thousand, even.”
“You might perhaps borrow the money on the prospect of your approaching marriage—but I doubt if you could get hold of half that sum. Besides—eh bien, it is repungnant to me that you should pay! No, the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot shall defeat your enemies! Send me this Mr. Lavington. Is he likely to bring the letter with him?”
The girl shook her head.
“I do not think so. He is very cautious.”
“I suppose there is no doubt that he really has it?”
“He showed it to me when I went to his house.”
“You went to his house? That was very imprudent, milady.”
“Was it? I was so desperate. I hoped my entreaties might move him.”
“Oh, là là! The Lavingtons of this world are not moved by entreaties! He would welcome them as showing how much importance you attached to the document. Where does he live, this fine gentleman?”
“At Buona Vista, Wimbledon. I went there after dark—” Poirot groaned. “I declared that I would inform the police in the end, but he only laughed in a horrid, sneering manner. ‘By all means, my dear Lady Millicent, do so if you wish,’ he said.”
“Yes, it is hardly an affair for the police,” murmured Poirot.
“ ‘But I think you will be wiser than that,’ he continued. ‘See, here is your letter—in this little Chinese puzzle box!’ He held it so that I could see. I tried to snatch at it, but he was too quick for me. With a horrid smile he folded it up and replaced it in the little wooden box. ‘It will be quite safe here, I assure you,’ he said, ‘and the box itself lives in such a clever place that you would never find it.’ My eyes turned to the small wall safe, and he shook his head and laughed. ‘I have a better safe than that,’ he said. Oh, he was odious! M. Poirot, do you think that you can help me?”
“Have faith in Papa Poirot. I will find a way.”
These reassurances were all very well, I thought, as Poirot gallantly ushered his fair client down the stairs, but it seemed to me that we had a tough nut to crack. I said as much to Poirot when he returned. He nodded ruefully.
“Yes—the solution does not leap to the eye. He has the whip hand, this M. Lavington. For the moment I do not see how we are to circumvent him.”
II
Mr. Lavington duly called upon us that afternoon. Lady Millicent had spoken truly when she described him as an odious man. I felt a positive tingling in the end of my boot, so keen was I to kick him down the stairs. He was blustering and overbearing in manner, laughed Poirot’s gentle suggestions to scorn, and generally showed himself as master of the situation. I could not help feeling that Poirot was hardly appearing at his best. He looked discouraged and crestfallen.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Lavington, as he took up his hat, “we don’t seem to be getting much further. The case stands like this: I’ll let the Lady Millicent off cheap, as she is such a charming young lady.” He leered odiously. “We’ll say eighteen thousand. I’m off to Paris today—a little piece of business to attend to over there. I shall be back on Tuesday. Unless the money is paid by Tuesday evening, the letter goes to the Duke. Don’t tell me Lady Millicent can’t raise the money. Some of her gentlemen friends would be only too willing to oblige such a pretty woman with a loan—if she goes the right way about it.”
My face flushed, and I took a step forward, but Lavington had wheeled out of the room as he finished his sentence.
“My God!” I cried. “Something has got to be done. You seem to be taking this lying down, Poirot.”
“You have an excellent heart, my friend—but your grey cells are in a deplorable condition. I have no wish to impress Mr. Lavington with my capabilities. The more pusillanimous he thinks me, the better.”
“Why?”
“It is curious,” murmured Poirot reminiscently, “that I should have uttered a wish to work against the law just before Lady Millicent arrived!”
“You are going to burgle his house while he is away?” I gasped.
“Sometimes, Hastings, your mental processes are amazingly quick.”
“Suppose he takes the letter with him?”
Poirot shook his head.
“That is very unlikely. He has evidently a hiding place in his house that he fancies to be pretty impregnable.”
“When do we—er—do the deed?”
“Tomorrow night. We will start from here about eleven o’clock.”
III
At the time appointed I was ready to set off. I had donned a dark suit, and a soft dark hat. Poirot beamed kindly on me.
“You have dressed the part, I see,” he observed. “Come let us take the underground to Wimbledon.”
“Aren’t we going to take anything with us? Tools to break in with?”
“My dear Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not adopt such crude methods.”
I retired, snubbed, but my curiosity was alert.
It was just on midnight that we entered the small suburban garden of Buona Vista. The house was dark and silent. Poirot went straight to a window at the back of the house, raised the sash noiselessly and bade me enter.
“How did you know this window would be open?” I whispered, for really it seemed uncanny.
“Because I sawed through the catch this morning.”
“What?”<
br />
“But yes, it was most simple. I called, presented a fictitious card and one of Inspector Japp’s official ones. I said I had been sent, recommended by Scotland Yard, to attend to some burglar-proof fastenings that Mr. Lavington wanted fixed while he was away. The housekeeper welcomed me with enthusiasm. It seems they have had two attempted burglaries here lately—evidently our little idea has occurred to other clients of Mr. Lavington’s—with nothing of value taken. I examined all the windows, made my little arrangement, forbade the servants to touch the windows until tomorrow, as they were electrically connected up, and withdrew gracefully.”
“Really, Poirot, you are wonderful.”
“Mon ami, it was of the simplest. Now, to work! The servants sleep at the top of the house, so we will run little risk of disturbing them.”
“I presume the safe is built into the wall somewhere?”
“Safe? Fiddlesticks! There is no safe. Mr. Lavington is an intelligent man. You will see, he will have devised a hiding place much more intelligent than a safe. A safe is the first thing everyone looks for.”
Whereupon we began a systematic search of the entire place. But after several hours ransacking the house, our search had been unavailing. I saw symptoms of anger gathering on Poirot’s face.
“Ah, sapristi, is Hercule Poirot to be beaten? Never! Let us be calm. Let us reflect. Let us reason. Let us—enfin!—employ our little grey cells!”
He paused for some moments, bending his brows in concentration; then the green light I knew so well stole into his eyes.
“I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!”
“The kitchen,” I cried. “But that’s impossible. The servants!”
“Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!”
I followed him, completely sceptical, and watched whilst he dived into bread bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas oven. In the end, tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there, and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search, noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.
Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories Page 22
