by Mark Place
“Over three quarters of an hour,” he murmured. “I wonder if I should have waited.”
His footsteps slackened; he almost seemed on the point of returning. Some vague foreboding seemed to assail him. He shook it off resolutely, however, and continued to walk in the direction of the village. But his face was still troubled, and once or twice he shook his head like a man only partly satisfied. It was still some minutes of nine when he once more approached the garden door. It was a clear, still evening; hardly a breeze stirred the leaves. There was, perhaps, something a little sinister in the stillness, like the lull before a storm. Poirot’s footsteps quickened ever so slightly. He was suddenly alarmed - and uncertain. He feared he knew not what. And at that moment the garden door opened and Claude Langton stepped quickly out into the road. He started when he saw Poirot. “Oh - er - good evening.”
“Good evening, Monsieur Langton. You are early.”
Langton stared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You have taken the wasps nest?”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”
“Oh!” said Poirot softly. “So you did not take the wasps nest. What did you do then?”
“Oh, just sat and yarned a bit with old Harrison. I really must hurry along now, Monsieur Poirot. I’d no idea you were remaining in this part of the world.”
“I had business here, you see.”
“Oh! Well, you’ll find Harrison on the terrace. Sorry I can’t stop.”
He hurried away. Poirot looked after him. A nervous young fellow, good-looking with a weak mouth!
“So I shall find Harrison on the terrace,” murmured Poirot.
“I wonder.” He went in through the garden door and up the path. Harrison was sitting in a chair by the table. He sat motionless and did not even turn his head as Poirot came up to him.
“Ah! Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You are all right, eh?”
There was a long pause and, then Harrison said in a queer, dazed voice, “What did you say?”
“I said - are you all right?”
“All right? Yes, I’m all right. Why not?”
“You feel no ill effects? That is good.”
“Ill effects? From what?”
“Washing soda.”
Harrison roused himself suddenly. “Washing soda? What do you mean?” Poirot made an apologetic gesture. “I infinitely regret the necessity, but I put some in your pocket.”
“You put some in my pocket? What on earth for?”
Harrison stared at him. Poirot spoke quietly and impersonally like a lecturer coming down to the level of a small child.
“You see, one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of being a detective is that it brings you into contact with the criminal classes. And the criminal classes, they can teach you some very interesting and curious things. There was a pickpocket once - I interested myself in him because for once in a way he has not done what they say he has done - and so I get him off. And because he is grateful he pays me in the only way he can think of - which is to show me the tricks of his trade. And so it happens that I can pick a man’s pocket if I choose without his ever suspecting the fact. I lay one hand on his shoulder, I excite myself, and he feels nothing. But all the same I have managed to transfer what is in his pocket to my pocket and leave washing soda in its place.”
“You see,” continued Poirot dreamily, “if a man wants to get at some poison quickly to put in a glass, unobserved, he positively must keep it in his right-hand coat pocket; there is nowhere else. I knew it would be there.”
He dropped his hand into his pocket and brought out a few white, lumpy crystals. “Exceedingly dangerous,” he murmured, “to carry it like that - loose.”
Calmly and without hurrying himself, he took from another pocket a wide-mouthed bottle. He slipped in the crystals, stepped to the table and filled up the bottle with plain water. Then carefully corking it, he shook it until all the crystals were dissolved. Harrison watched him as though fascinated. Satisfied with his solution, Poirot stepped across to the nest. He uncorked the bottle, turned his head aside, and poured the solution into the wasps nest, then stood back a pace or two watching. Some wasps that were returning alighted quivered a little and then lay still. Other wasps crawled out of the hole only to die. Poirot watched for a minute or two and then nodded his head and came back to the veranda. “A quick death,” he said. “A very quick death.”
Harrison found his voice. “How much do you know?”
Poirot looked straight ahead. “As I told you, I saw Claude Langton’s name in the book. What I did not tell you was that almost immediately afterwards, I happened to meet him. He told me he had been buying cyanide of potassium at your request - to take a wasps nest. That struck me as a little odd, my friend, because I remember that at that dinner of which you spoke, you held forth on the superior merits of petrol and denounced the buying of cyanide as dangerous and unnecessary.”
“Go on.”
“I knew something else. I had seen Claude Langton and Molly Deane together when they thought no one saw them. I do not know what lovers” quarrel it was that originally parted them and drove her into your arms, but I realized that misunderstandings were over and that Miss Deane was drifting back to her love.”
“Go on.”
“I knew something more, my friend. I was in Harley Street the other day, and I saw you come out of a certain doctor’s house. I know that doctor and for what disease one consults him, and I read the expression on your face. I have seen it only once or twice in my lifetime, but it is not easily mistaken. It was the face of a man under sentence of death. I am right, am I not?”
“Quite right. He gave me two months.”
“You did not see me, my friend, for you had other things to think about. I saw something else on your face - the thing that I told you this afternoon men try to conceal. I saw hate there, my friend. You did not trouble to conceal it, because you thought there were none to observe.”
“Go on,” said Harrison.
“There is not much more to say. I came down here, saw Langton’s name by accident in the poison book as I tell you, met him, and came here to you. I laid traps for you. You denied having asked Langton to get cyanide, or rather you expressed surprise at his having done so. You were taken aback at first at my appearance, but presently you saw how well it would fit in and you encouraged my suspicions. I knew from Langton himself that he was coming at half past eight. You told me nine o’clock, thinking I should come and find everything over. And so I knew everything.”
“Why did you come?” cried Harrison. “If only you hadn’t come!”
Poirot drew himself up. “I told you,” he said, “Murder is my business.”
“Murder? Suicide, you mean.”
“No.” Poirot’s voice rang out sharply and clearly. “I mean murder. “Your death was to be quick and easy, but the death you planned for Langton was the worst death any man can die. He bought the poison; he comes to see you, and he is alone with you. You die suddenly, and the cyanide is found in your glass, and Claude Langton hangs. That was your plan.” Again Harrison moaned.
“Why did you come? Why did you come?”
“I have told you, but there is another reason. I liked you. Listen, mon ami, you are a dying man; you have lost the girl you loved, but there is one thing that you are not: you are not a murderer. Tell me now: are you glad or sorry that I came?”
There was a moment’s pause and Harrison drew himself up. There was a new dignity in his face - the look of a man who has conquered his own baser self. He stretched out his hand across the table.
“Thank goodness you came,” he cried. “Oh, thank goodness you came.”
The Submarine Plans
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
The Submarine Plans
A note had been brought by special messenger. Poirot read it, and a gleam of excitement and interest came into his eyes as he did so. He dismissed the man with a few curt words and then turned t
o me.
“Pack a bag with all haste, my friend. We’re going down to Sharples”
I started at the mention of the famous country place of Lord Alloway. Head of the newly formed Ministry of Defence, Lord Alloway was a prominent member of the Cabinet. As Sir Ralph Curtis, head of a great engineering firm, he had made his mark in the House of Commons, and he was now freely spoken of as the coming man, and the one most likely to be asked to form a ministry should the turnouts as to Mr David MacAdam’s health prove well founded. A big Rolls-Royce car was waiting for us below, and as we glided off into the darkness, I plied Poirot with questions. “What on earth can they want us for at this time of night?” I demanded. It was past eleven.
Poirot shook his head. “Something of the most urgent, without doubt.”
“I remember,” I said, “that some years ago there was some rather ugly scandal about Ralph Curtis, as he then was - some jugglery with shares, I believe. In the end, he was completely exonerated; but perhaps something of the kind has arisen again?”
“It would hardly be necessary for him to send for me in the middle of the night, my friend.”
I was forced to agree, and the remainder of the journey was passed in silence. Once out of London, the powerful car forged rapidly ahead, and we arrived at Sharples in a little under the hour. A pontifical butler conducted us at once to a small study where Lord Alloway was awaiting us. He sprang up to greet us - a tall, spare man who seemed actually to radiate power and vitality.
“M. Poirot, I am delighted to see you. It is the second time the Government has demanded your services. I remember only too well what you did for us during the war, when the Prime Minister was kidnapped in that astounding fashion. Your masterly deductions - and may I add, your discretion? - saved the situation.”
Poirot’s eyes twinkled a little. “Do I gather then, milord”, that this is another case for - discretion?”
“Most emphatically. Sir Harry and I - oh, let me introduce you - Admiral Sir Harry Weardale, our First Sea Lord - M. Poirot and - let me see, Captain.”
“Hastings,” I supplied.
“I’ve often heard of you, M. Poirot,” said Sir Harry, shaking hands. “This is a most unaccountable business, and if you can solve it, we’ll be extremely grateful to you.”
I liked the First Sea Lord immediately, a square, bluff sailor of the good old-fashioned type. Poirot looked inquiringly at them both, and Alloway took up the tale. “Of course, you understand that all this is in confidence, M. Poirot. We have had a most serious loss. The plans of the new G type of submarine have been stolen.”
“When was that?”
“Tonight - less than three hours ago. You can appreciate perhaps, M. Poirot, the magnitude of the disaster. It is essential that the loss should not be made public. I will give you the facts as briefly as possible. My guests over the weekend were the Admiral, here, his wife and son, and a Mrs Conrad, a lady well known in London society. The ladies retired to bed early - about ten o’clock; so did Mr Leonard Weardale. Sir Harry is down here partly for the purpose of discussing the construction of this new type of submarine with me. Accordingly, I asked Mr Fitzroy, my secretary, to get out the plans from the safe in the corner there, and to arrange them ready for me, as well as various other documents that bore upon the subject in hand.”
“While he was doing this, the Admiral and I strolled up and down the terrace, smoking cigars and enjoying the warm June air. We finished our smoke and our chat, and decided to get down to business. Just as we turned at the far end of the terrace, I fancied I saw a shadow slip out of the French window here, cross the terrace, and disappear. I paid very little attention, however. I knew Fitzroy to be in this room, and it never entered my head that anything might be amiss. There, of course, I am to blame. Well, we retraced our steps along the terrace and entered this room by the window just as Fitzroy entered it from the hall.”
"Got everything out we are likely to need, Fitzroy?" I asked.
"I think so, Lord Alloway. The papers are all on your desk," he answered. And then he wished us both goodnight.
"Just wait a minute," I said, going to the desk.
"I may want something I haven’t mentioned."
“I looked quickly through the papers that were lying there.
"You’ve forgotten the most important of the lot, Fitzroy," I said. "The actual plans of the submarine!"
"The plans are right on top, Lord Alloway."
"Oh no, they’re not," I said, turning over the papers”
"But I put them there not a minute ago?”
"Well, they’re not here now," I said.
Fitzroy advanced with a bewildered expression on his face. The thing seemed incredible. We turned over the papers on the desk; we hunted through the safe; but at last we had to make up our minds to admit that the papers were gone - and gone within the short space of about three minutes while Fitzroy was absent from the room.
“Why did he leave the room?” asked Poirot quickly.
“Just what I asked him,” exclaimed Sir Harry.
“It appears,” said Lord Alloway, “that just when he had finished arranging the papers on my desk, he was startled by hearing a woman scream. He dashed out into the hall. On the stairs he discovered Mrs Conrad’s French maid. The girl looked very white and upset, and declared that she had seen a ghost - a tall figure dressed all in white that moved without a sound. Fitzroy laughed at her fears and told her, in more or less polite language, not to be a fool. Then he returned to this room just as we entered from the window.” “It all seems very clear,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “The only question is, was the maid an accomplice? Did she scream by arrangement with her confederate lurking outside, or was he merely waiting there in the hope of an opportunity presenting itself? It was a man, I suppose - not a woman you saw?”
“I can’t tell you, M. Poirot. It was just a - shadow.”
The Admiral gave such a peculiar snort that it could not fail to attract attention.
“M. Lord Admiral has something to say, I think,” said Poirot quietly, with a slight smile.
“You saw this shadow, Sir Harry?”
“No, I didn’t,” returned the other.
“And neither did Alloway. The branch of a tree flapped, or something, and then afterwards, when we discovered the theft, he leaped to the conclusion that he had seen someone pass across the terrace. His imagination played a trick on him; that’s all.”
“I am not usually credited with having much imagination,” said Lord Alloway with a slight smile.
“Nonsense, we’ve all got imagination. We can all work ourselves up to believe that we’ve seen more than we have. I’ve had a lifetime of experience at sea, and I’ll back my eyes against those of any landsman. I was looking right down the terrace, and I’d have seen the same if there was anything to see.” He was quite excited over the matter. Poirot rose and stepped quickly to the window.
“You permit?” he asked. “We must settle this point if possible.” He went out upon the terrace, and we followed him. He had taken an electric torch from his pocket, and was playing the light along the edge of the grass that bordered the terrace.
“Where did he cross the terrace, milord?” he asked.
“About opposite the window, I should say.” Poirot continued to play the torch for some minutes longer, walking the entire length of the terrace and back. Then he shut it off and straightened himself up.
“Sir Harry is right - and you are wrong, milord” he said quietly.
“It rained heavily earlier this evening. Anyone who passed over that grass could not avoid leaving footmarks. But there are none, none at all.”
His eyes went from one man’s face to the other’s. Lord Alloway looked bewildered and unconvinced; the Admiral expressed a noisy gratification.
“Knew I couldn’t be wrong,” he declared.
“Trust my eyes anywhere.” He was such a picture of an honest old sea-dog that I could not help smiling.
“So that bri
ngs us to the people in the house,” said Poirot smoothly. “Let us come inside again. Now, milord”, while Mr Fitzroy was speaking to the maid on the stairs, could anyone have seized the opportunity to enter the study from the hall?” Lord Alloway shook his head. “Quite impossible - they would have had to pass him in order to do so.”
“And Mr Fitzroy himself - you are sure of him, eh?” Lord Alloway flushed. “Absolutely, M. Poirot. I will answer confidently for my secretary. It is quite impossible that he should be concerned in the matter in any way.”
“Everything seems to be impossible,” remarked Poirot rather drily. “Possibly the plans attached to themselves a little pair of wings, and flew away - comme fa!” He blew his lips out like a comical cherub.
“The whole thing is impossible,” declared Lord Alloway impatiently.
“But I beg, M. Poirot that you will not dream of suspecting Fitzroy. Consider for one moment - had he wished to take the plans, what could have been easier for him than to take a tracing of them without going to the trouble of stealing them?”
“There, milord,” said Poirot with approval, “you make a remark most apt and just - I see that you have a mind orderly and methodical. L’ Angleterre is blessed in possessing you.” Lord Alloway looked rather embarrassed by this sudden burst of praise. Poirot returned to the matter in hand. “The room in which you had been sitting all the evening-“
“The drawing-room? Yes?”
“That also has a window on the terrace, since I remember your saying you went out that way. Would it not be possible for someone to come out by the drawing-room window and in by this one while Mr Fitzroy was out of the room, and return the same way?”
“But we’d have seen them,” objected the Admiral.
“Not if you had your backs turned, walking the other way.”
“Fitzroy was only out of the room a few minutes, the time it would take us to walk to the end and back.”
