‘I had already deduced as much,’ replied Poirot gravely. ‘What does he do, this Mr Parker?’
‘He is a young man about town—not, perhaps, quite in the swim, if I may so express myself.’
‘How did he come to be a friend of yours, may I ask?’
‘Well—er—on one or two occasions he has—performed certain little commissions for me.’
‘Continue, monsieur,’ said Poirot.
Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do was to continue. But as Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he capitulated.
‘You see, Monsieur Poirot—it is well known that I am interested in antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of—which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia. She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the transaction.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘And you trust him implicitly?’
‘I have had no reason to do otherwise.’
‘Mr Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?’
‘Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a question! They are my friends, as I told you. I suspect none of them—or all of them, whichever way you like to put it.’
‘I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess Rossakoff. It is not Mr Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr Johnston?’
‘You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most anxious to have no scandal. Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest families in England; but it is true, it is most unfortunately true, that her aunt, Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood, of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicament!’
‘So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a klepto-maniac? Very interesting. You permit that I examine the safe?’
Mr Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us.
‘Even now the door does not shut properly,’ murmured Poirot, as he swung it to and fro. ‘I wonder why? Ah, what have we here? A glove, caught in the hinge. A man’s glove.’
He held it out to Mr Hardman.
‘That’s not one of my gloves,’ the latter declared.
‘Aha! Something more!’ Poirot bent deftly and picked up a small object from the floor of the safe. It was a flat cigarette case made of black moiré.
‘My cigarette case!’ cried Mr Hardman.
‘Yours? Surely not, monsieur. Those are not your initials.’
He pointed to an entwined monogram of two letters executed in platinum.
Hardman took it in his hand.
‘You are right,’ he declared. ‘It is very like mine, but the initials are different. A “B” and a “P”. Good heavens—Parker!’
‘It would seem so,’ said Poirot. ‘A somewhat carless young man—especially if the glove is his also. That would be a double clue, would it not?’
‘Bernard Parker!’ murmured Hardman. ‘What a relief! Well, Monsieur Poirot, I leave it to you to recover the jewels. Place the matter in the hands of the police if you think fit—that is, if you are quite sure that it is he who is guilty.’
II
‘See you, my friend,’ said Poirot to me, as we left the house together, ‘he has one law for the titled, and another law for the plain, this Mr Hardman. Me, I have not yet been ennobled, so I am on the side of the plain. I have sympathy for this young man. The whole thing was a little curious, was it not? There was Hardman suspecting Lady Runcorn; there was I, suspecting the Countess and Johnston; and all the time, the obscure Mr Parker was our man.’
‘Why did you suspect the other two?’
‘Parbleu! It is such a simple thing to be a Russian refugee or a South African millionaire. Any woman can call herself a Russian countess; anyone can buy a house in Park Lane and call himself a South African millionaire. Who is going to contradict them? But I observe that we are passing through Bury Street. Our careless young friend lives here. Let us, as you say, strike while the iron is in the fire.’
Mr Bernard Parker was at home. We found him reclining on some cushions, clad in an amazing dressing-gown of purple and orange. I have seldom taken a greater dislike to anyone than I did to this particular young man with his white, effeminate face and affected lisping speech.
‘Good morning, monsieur,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘I come from Mr Hardman. Yesterday, at the party, somebody has stolen all his jewels. Permit me to ask you, monsieur—is this your glove?’
Mr Parker’s mental processes did not seem very rapid. He stared at the glove, as though gathering his wits together.
‘Where did you find it?’ he asked at last.
‘Is it your glove, monsieur?’
Mr Parker appeared to make up his mind.
‘No, it isn’t,’ he declared.
‘And this cigarette case, is that yours?’
‘Certainly not. I always carry a silver one.’
‘Very well, monsieur. I go to put matters in the hands of the police.’
‘Oh, I say, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ cried Mr Parker in some concern. ‘Beastly unsympathetic people, the police. Wait a bit. I’ll go round and see old Hardman. Look here—oh, stop a minute.’
But Poirot beat a determined retreat.
‘We have given him something to think about, have we not?’ he chuckled. ‘Tomorrow we will observe what has occurred.’
But we were destined to have a reminder of the Hardman case that afternoon. Without the least warning the door flew open, and a whirlwind in human form invaded our privacy, bringing with her a swirl of sables (it was as cold as only an English June day can be) and a hat rampant with slaughtered ospreys. Countess Vera Rossakoff was a somewhat disturbing personality.
‘You are Monsieur Poirot? What is this that you have done? You accuse that poor boy! It is infamous. It is scandalous. I know him. He is a chicken, a lamb—never would he steal. He has done everything for me. Will I stand by and see him martyred and butchered?’
‘Tell me, madame, is this his cigarette case?’ Poirot held out the black moiré case.
The Countess paused for a moment while she inspected it.
‘Yes, it is his. I know it well. What of it? Did you find it in the room? We were all there; he dropped it then, I suppose. Ah, you policemen, you are worse than the Red Guards—’
‘And is this his glove?’
‘How should I know? One glove is like another. Do not try to stop me—he must be set free. His character must be cleared. You shall do it. I will sell my jewels and give you much money.’
‘Madame—’
‘It is agreed, then? No, no, do not argue. The poor boy! He came to me, the tears in his eyes. “I will save you,” I said. “I will go to this man—this ogre, this monster! Leave it to Vera.” Now it is settled, I go.’
With as little ceremony as she had come, she swept from the room, leaving an overpowering perfume of an exotic nature behind her.
‘What a woman!’ I exclaimed. ‘And what furs!’
‘Ah, yes, they were genuine enough. Could a spurious countess have real furs? My little joke, Hastings…No, she is truly Russian, I fancy. Well, well, so Master Bernard went bleating to her.’
‘The cigarette case is his. I wonder if the glove is also—’
With a smile Poirot drew from his pocket a second glove and placed it by the first. There was no doubt of their being a pair.
‘Where did you get the second one, Poirot?’
‘It was thrown down with a stick on the table in the hall in Bury Street. Truly, a very careless young
man, Monsieur Parker. Well, well, mon ami—we must be thorough. Just for the form of the thing, I will make a little visit to Park Lane.’
Needless to say, I accompanied my friend. Johnston was out, but we saw his private secretary. It transpired that Johnston had only recently arrived from South Africa. He had never been in England before.
‘He is interested in precious stones, is he not?’ hazarded Poirot.
‘Gold mining is nearer the mark,’ laughed the secretary.
Poirot came away from the interview thoughtful. Late that evening, to my utter surprise, I found him earnestly studying a Russian grammar.
‘Good heavens, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘Are you learning Russian in order to converse with the Countess in her own language?’
‘She certainly would not listen to my English, my friend!’
‘But surely, Poirot, well-born Russians invariably speak French?’
‘You are a mine of information, Hastings! I will cease puzzling over the intricacies of the Russian alphabet.’
He threw the book from him with a dramatic gesture. I was not entirely satisfied. There was a twinkle in his eye which I knew of old. It was an invariable sign that Hercule Poirot was pleased with himself.
‘Perhaps,’ I said sapiently, ‘you doubt her being really a Russian. You are going to test her?’
‘Ah, no, no, she is Russian all right.’
‘Well, then—’
‘If you really want to distinguish yourself over this case, Hastings, I recommend First Steps in Russian as an invaluable aid.’
Then he laughed and would say no more. I picked up the book from the floor and dipped into it curiously, but could make neither head nor tail of Poirot’s remarks.
The following morning brought us no news of any kind, but that did not seem to worry my little friend. At breakfast, he announced his intention of calling upon Mr Hardman early in the day. We found the elderly social butterfly at home, and seemingly a little calmer than on the previous day.
‘Well, Monsieur Poirot, any news?’ he demanded eagerly.
Poirot handed him a slip of paper.
‘That is the person who took the jewels, monsieur. Shall I put matters in the hands of the police? Or would you prefer me to recover the jewels without bringing the police into the matter?’
Mr Hardman was staring at the paper. At last he found his voice.
‘Most astonishing. I should infinitely prefer to have no scandal in the matter. I give you carte blanche, Monsieur Poirot. I am sure you will be discreet.’
Our next procedure was to hail a taxi, which Poirot ordered to drive to the Carlton. There he inquired for Countess Rossakoff. In a few minutes we were ushered up into the lady’s suite. She came to meet us with outstretched hands, arrayed in a marvellous negligée of barbaric design.
‘Monsieur Poirot!’ she cried. ‘You have succeeded? You have cleared that poor infant?’
‘Madame la Comtesse, your friend Mr Parker is perfectly safe from arrest.’
‘Ah, but you are the clever little man! Superb! And so quickly too.’
‘On the other hand, I have promised Mr Hardman that the jewels shall be returned to him today.’
‘So?’
‘Therefore, madame, I should be extremely obliged if you would place them in my hands without delay. I am sorry to hurry you, but I am keeping a taxi—in case it should be necessary for me to go on to Scotland Yard; and we Belgians, madame, we practise the thrift.’
The Countess had lighted a cigarette. For some seconds she sat perfectly still, blowing smoke rings, and gazing steadily at Poirot. Then she burst into a laugh, and rose. She went across to the bureau, opened a drawer, and took out a black silk handbag. She tossed it lightly to Poirot. Her tone, when she spoke, was perfectly light and unmoved.
‘We Russians, on the contrary, practise prodigality,’ she said. ‘And to do that, unfortunately, one must have money. You need not look inside. They are all there.’
Poirot arose.
‘I congratulate you, madame, on your quick intelligence and your promptitude.’
‘Ah! But since you were keeping your taxi waiting, what else could I do?’
‘You are too amiable, madame. You are remaining long in London?’
‘I am afraid no—owing to you.’
‘Accept my apologies.’
‘We shall meet again elsewhere, perhaps.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And I—do not!’ exclaimed the Countess with a laugh. ‘It is a great compliment that I pay you there—there are very few men in the world whom I fear. Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot.’
‘Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse. Ah—pardon me, I forgot! Allow me to return you your cigarette case.’
And with a bow he handed to her the little black moiré case we had found in the safe. She accepted it without any change of expression—just a lifted eyebrow and a murmured: ‘I see!’
III
‘What a woman!’ cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs. ‘Mon Dieu, quelle femme! Not a word of argument—of protestation, of bluff! One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you, Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that—with a careless smile—will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she—’ He tripped heavily.
‘If you can manage to moderate your transports and look where you’re going, it might be as well,’ I suggested. ‘When did you first suspect the Countess?’
‘Mon ami, it was the glove and the cigarette case—the double clue, shall we say—that worried me. Bernard Parker might easily have dropped one or the other—but hardly both. Ah, no, that would have been too careless! In the same way, if someone else had placed them there to incriminate Parker, one would have been sufficient—the cigarette case or the glove—again not both. So I was forced to the conclusion that one of the two things did not belong to Parker. I imagined at first that the case was his, and that the glove was not. But when I discovered the fellow to the glove, I saw that it was the other way about. Whose, then, was the cigarette case? Clearly, it could not belong to Lady Runcorn. The initials were wrong. Mr Johnston? Only if he were here under a false name. I interviewed his secretary, and it was apparent at once that everything was clear and above board. There was no reticence about Mr Johnston’s past. The Countess, then? She was supposed to have brought jewels with her from Russia; she had only to take the stones from their settings, and it was extremely doubtful if they could ever be identified. What could be easier for her than to pick up one of Parker’s gloves from the hall that day and thrust it into the safe? But, bien sûr, she did not intend to drop her own cigarette case.’
‘But if the case was hers, why did it have “B.P.” on it? The Countess’s initials are V.R.’
Poirot smiled gently upon me.
‘Exactly, mon ami; but in the Russian alphabet, B is V and P is R.’
‘Well, you couldn’t expect me to guess that. I don’t know Russian.’
‘Neither do I, Hastings. That is why I bought my little book—and urged it on your attention.’
He sighed.
‘A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend—a very decided feeling—I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?’
The King of Clubs
I
‘Truth,’ I observed, laying aside the Daily Newsmonger, ‘is stranger than fiction!’
The remark was not, perhaps, an original one. It appeared to incense my friend. Tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, the little man carefully flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his carefully creased trousers, and observed: ‘How profound! What a thinker is my friend Hastings!’
Without displaying any annoyance at this quite uncalled-for gibe, I tapped the sheet I had laid aside.
‘You’ve read this morning’s paper?’
‘I have. And after reading it, I folded it anew symmetrically. I did not cast it on the floor as you have done, with your so lamentable absence of order and method.’
&n
bsp; (That is the worst of Poirot. Order and Method are his gods. He goes so far as to attribute all his success to them.)
‘Then you saw the account of the murder of Henry Reedburn, the impresario? It was that which prompted my remark. Not only is truth stranger than fiction—it is more dramatic. Think of that solid middle-class English family, the Oglanders. Father and mother, son and daughter, typical of thousands of families all over this country. The men of the family go to the city every day; the women look after the house. Their lives are perfectly peaceful, and utterly monotonous. Last night they were sitting in their neat suburban drawing-room at Daisymead, Streatham, playing bridge. Suddenly, without any warning, the french window bursts open, and a woman staggers into the room. Her grey satin frock is marked with a crimson stain. She utters one word, “Murder!” before she sinks to the ground insensible. It is possible that they recognize her from her pictures as Valerie Saintclair, the famous dancer who has lately taken London by storm!’
‘Is this your eloquence, or that of the Daily Newsmonger?’ inquired Poirot.
‘The Daily Newsmonger was in a hurry to go to press, and contented itself with bare facts. But the dramatic possibilities of the story struck me at once.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wherever there is human nature, there is drama. But—it is not always just where you think it is. Remember that. Still, I too am interested in the case, since it is likely that I shall be connected with it.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. A gentleman rang me up this morning, and made an appointment with me on behalf of Prince Paul of Maurania.’
‘But what has that to do with it?’
‘You do not read your pretty little English scandal-papers. The ones with the funny stories, and “a little mouse has heard—” or “a little bird would like to know—” See here.’
I followed his short stubby finger along the paragraph: ‘—whether the foreign prince and the famous dancer are really affinities! And if the lady likes her new diamond ring!’
‘And now to resume your so dramatic narrative,’ said Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle Saintclair had just fainted on the drawing-room carpet at Daisymead, you remember.’
Poirot's Early Cases Page 10
