by Mark Place
"Poirot," I cried, "the thing's a dark mystery! It will never be solved."
"It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it."
"No, indeed. It's a hard nut to crack."
"Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr Harrington Pace."
"You know? How did you find out?"
"Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth. See here, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in order. Mr Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will doubtless pass to his nephew.
Point No. 1.
His nephew is known to be desperately hard up.
Point No. 2.
His nephew is also known to be -shall we say a man of rather loose moral fibre?
Point No. 3."
"But Roger Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to London."
"Précisément -and therefore, as Mr Havering left Elmer's Dale at 6:15, and since Mr Pace cannot have been killed before he left, or the doctor would have spotted the time of the crime as being given wrongly when he examined the body, we conclude quite rightly, that Mr Havering did not shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs Havering, Hastings."
"Impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired."
"Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared."
"She will be found."
"I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper; don't you think so, Hastings? It struck me at once."
"She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time."
"And what was her part?"
"Well, presumably to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man."
"Oh, no, that was not her part! Her part was what you have just mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs Havering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, mon ami, because she does not exist! 'There's no such person,' as your so great Shakespeare says."
"It was Dickens," I murmured, unable to suppress a smile.
"But what do you mean, Poirot?"
"I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage, that you and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim middle-aged figure in black with a faint subdued voice, and finally that neither you nor Japp, nor the local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever saw Mrs Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time. It was child's play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, slips on a bright jumper and a hat with black curls attached which she jams down over the grey transformation. A few deft touches and the makeup is removed, a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes down with her clear ringing voice. Nobody looks particularly at the housekeeper. Why should they? There is nothing to connect her with the crime. She, too, has an alibi."
"But the revolver that was found at Eating? Mrs, Havering could not have placed it there?"
"No, that was Roger Havering's job -but it was a mistake on their part. It put me on the right track. A man who has committed a murder with a revolver which he found on the spot would fling it away at once; he would not carry it up to London with him. No, the motive was clear, the criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Derbyshire; they were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter's Lodge. Of course the revolver found at Ealing was not the one with which Mr Pace was shot. Roger Havering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly out to Ealing by the district, a matter of about twenty minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found and so back to town. That charming creature, his wife, quietly shoots Mr Pace after dinner you remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point, that! reloads the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with her desperate little comedy."
"It's incredible," I murmured, fascinated, "and yet"
"And yet it is true. Bien sur, my friend, it is true. But to bring that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must do what he can -I have written him fully -but I very much fear, Hastings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to Fate, or le bon Dieu, whichever you prefer."
"The wicked flourish like a green bay tree," I reminded him.
"But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, croyez-moi!"
Poirot's forebodings were confirmed. Japp, though convinced of the truth of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence to ensure a conviction. Mr Pace's huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers. Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I read in the paper that the Hon Roger and Mrs Havering were amongst those killed in the crashing of the Air Mail to Paris I knew that Justice was satisfied.
The Disappearance Of
Mr Davenheim
BY
AGATHA CHRISTIE
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR DAVENHEIM
Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our land-lady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot's palate than what he described as "your English poison." A sharp "rat-tat" sounded below, and a few minutes afterwards Japp entered briskly.
"Hope I'm not late," he said as he greeted us. "To tell the truth, I was yarning with Miller, the man who's in charge of the Davenheim case." I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been full of the strange disappearance of Mr Davenheim, senior partner of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On Saturday last he had walked out of his house, and had never been seen since. I looked forward to extracting some interesting details from Japp. "I should have thought," I remarked, "that it would be almost impossible for anyone to 'disappear' nowadays."
Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch, and said sharply: "Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by 'disappear'? To which class of disappearance are you referring?"
"Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?"
I laughed. Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at us both. "But certainly they are! They fall into three categories: First, and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much abused 'loss of memory' case, rare, but occasionally genuine. Third, murder, and a more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of execution?"
"Very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory, but someone would be sure to recognize you -especially in the case of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then 'bodies' can't be made to vanish into thin air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places, or in trunks. Murder will out. In the same way, the absconding clerk, or the domestic defaulter, is bound to be run down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He can be headed off from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are watched; and, as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance will be known to everyone who reads a daily newspaper. He's up against civilization."
"Mon ami," said Poirot, "you make one error. You do not allow for the fact that a man who had decided to make away with another man or with himself in a figurative sense might be that rare machine, a man of method. He might bring intelligence, talent, a careful calculation of detail to the task; and then I do not see why he should not be successful in baffling the police force."
"But not you, I suppose?" said Japp good humouredly, winking at me. "He couldn't baffle you, eh, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot endeavoured, with a marked lack of success, to look modest. "Me, also! Why not? It is true
that I approach such problems with an exact science, a mathematical precision, which seems, alas, only too rare in the new generation of detectives!"
Japp grinned more widely. "I don't know," he said. "Miller, the man who's on this case, is a smart chap. You may be very sure he won't overlook a footprint, or a cigar-ash, or a crumb even.
He's got eyes that see everything."
"So, mon ami," said Poirot, "has the London sparrow. But all the same, I, should not ask the little brown bird to solve the problem of Mr Davenheim."
"Come now, monsieur, you're not going to run down the value of details as clues?"
"By no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger is they may assume undue importance. Most details are insignificant; one or two are vital. It is the brain, the little grey cells"
He tapped his forehead "on which one must rely. The senses mislead. One must seek the truth within not without."
"You don't mean to say, Monsieur Poirot, that you would undertake to solve a case without moving from your chair, do you?"
"That is exactly what I do mean -granted the facts were placed before me. I regard myself as a consulting specialist."
Japp slapped his knee. "Hanged if I don't take you at your word. Bet you a fiver that you can't lay your hand or rather tell me where to lay my hand, on Mr Davenheim, dead or alive, before a week is out."
Poirot considered. "Eh bien, mon ami, I accept. Le sport, it is the passion of you English. Now, the facts."
"On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr Davenheim took the 12:40 train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country place, The Cedars, is situated. After lunch, he strolled round the grounds, and gave various directions to the gardeners.”
“Everybody agrees that his manner was absolutely normal and as usual. After tea he put his head into his wife's boudoir, saying that he was going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added that he was expecting a Mr Lowen, on business. If Lowen should come before he himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and asked to wait. Mr Davenheim then left the house by the front door, passed leisurely down the drive, and out at the gate, and was never seen again. From that hour, he vanished completely."
"Pretty very pretty altogether a charming little problem," murmured Poirot. "Proceed, my good friend."
"About a quarter of an hour later a tall, dark man with a thick black moustache rang the front-door bell, and explained that he had an appointment with Mr Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen, and in accordance with the banker's instructions was shown into the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr Davenheim did not return. Finally Mr Lowen rang the bell, and explained that he was unable to wait any longer, as he must catch his train back to town. Mrs Davenheim apologized for her husband's absence, which seemed unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor. Mr Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure.”
"Well, as everyone knows, Mr Davenheim did not return. Early on Sunday morning the police were communicated with, but could make neither head nor tail of the matter. Mr Davenheim seemed literally to have vanished into thin air. He had not been to the post office; nor had he had been seen passing through the village. At the station they were positive he had not departed by any train. His own motor had not left the garage. If he had hired a car to meet him in some lonely spot, it seems almost certain that by this time, in view of the large reward offered for information, the driver of it would have come forward to tell what he knew. True, there was a small race-meeting at Entfield, five miles away, and if he had walked to that station he might have passed unnoticed in the crowd. But since then his photograph and a full description of him have been circulated in every newspaper, and nobody has been able to give any news of him. We have, of course, received many letters from all over England, but each due, so far, has ended in disappointment. On Monday morning a further sensational discovery came to light. Behind a portière in Mr Davenheim's study stands a safe, and that safe had been broken into and rifled. The windows were fastened securely on the inside, which seems to put an ordinary burglary out of court, unless, of course, an accomplice within the house fastened them again afterwards. On the other hand, Sunday having intervened, and the household being in a state of chaos, it is likely that the burglary was committed on the Saturday, and remained undetected until Monday."
"Précisément," said Poirot dryly. "Well, is he arrested, ce pauvre M. Lowen?"
Japp grinned. "Not yet. But he's under pretty close supervision." Poirot nodded. "What was taken from the safe? Have you any idea?"
"We've been going into that with the junior partner of the firm and Mrs Davenheim. Apparently there was a considerable amount in bearer bonds, and a very large sum in notes, owing to some large transaction having been just carried through. There was also a small fortune in jewellery. All Mrs Davenheim's jewels were kept in the safe. The purchasing of them had become a passion with her husband of late years, and hardly a month passed that he did not make her a present of some rare and costly gem."
"Altogether a good haul," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Now, what about Lowen? Is it known what his business was with Davenheim that evening?"
"Well, the two men were apparently not on very good terms. Lowen is a speculator in quite a small way. Nevertheless, he has been able once or twice to score a coup off Davenheim in the market, though it seems, they seldom or never actually met. It was a matter concerning some South American shares which led the banker to make his appointment."
"Had Davenheim interests in South America, then?"
"I believe so. Mrs Davenheim happened to mention that he spent all last autumn in Buenos Aires."
"Any trouble in his home life? Were the husband and wife on good terms?"
"I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful. Mrs Davenheim is a pleasant, rather unintelligent woman. Quite a nonentity, I think."
"Then we must not look for the solution of the mystery there. Had he any enemies?"
"He had plenty of financial rivals, and no doubt there are many people whom he has got the better of who bear him no particular good will. But there was no one likely to make away with him -and, if they had, where is the body?"
"Exactly. As Hastings says, bodies have a habit of coming to light with fatal persistency."
"By the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going round to the side of the house toward the rose-garden. The long French window of the study opens on to the rose-garden, and Mr Davenheim frequently entered and left the house that way. But the man was a good way off, at work on some cucumber frames, and cannot even say whether it was the figure of his master or not. Also, he cannot fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been before six, as the gardeners cease work at that time."
"And Mr Davenheim left the house?"
"About half-past five or thereabouts."
"What lies beyond the rose garden?"
"A lake."
"With a boathouse?"
"Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you're thinking of suicide, Monsieur Poirot? Well, I don't mind telling you that Miller's going down tomorrow expressly to see that piece of water dragged. That's the kind of man he is!"
Poirot smiled faintly, and turned to me. "Hastings, I pray you, hand me that copy of the Daily Megaphone. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man."
I rose, and found the sheet required. Poirot studied the features attentively. "H'm!" he murmured. "Wears his hair rather long and wavy, full moustache and pointed beard, bushy eyebrows. Eyes dark?"
"Yes."
"Hair and beard turning grey?"
The detective nodded. "Well, Monsieur Poirot, what have you got to say to it all? Clear as daylight, eh?"
"On the contrary, most obscure."
The Scotland Yard man looked pleased. "Which gives me great hopes of solving it," finished Poirot placidly.
"Eh?"
"I find it a good sign when a case is ob
scure. If a thing is clear as daylight, eh bien, mistrust it! Someone has made it so."
Japp shook his head almost pityingly. "Well, each to their fancy. But it's not a bad thing to see your way clear ahead."
"I do not see," murmured Poirot.
"I shut my eyes -and think."
Japp sighed. "Well, you've got a clear week to think in."
"And you will bring me any fresh developments that arise -the result of the labours of the hardworking and lynx-eyed Inspector Miller, for instance?"
"Certainly. That's in the bargain."
"Seems a shame, doesn't it?" said Japp to me as I accompanied him to the door. “Like robbing a child!"
I could not help agreeing with a smile. I was still smiling as I re-entered the room. "Eh bien!" said Poirot immediately. "You make fun of Papa Poirot, is it not so?" He shook his finger at me. "You do not trust his grey cells? Ah, do not be confused! Let us discuss this little problem incomplete as yet, I admit, but already showing one or two points of interest."
"The lake!" I said significantly.
"And even more than the lake, the boathouse!"
I looked sidewise at Poirot. He was smiling in his most inscrutable fashion. I felt that, for the moment, it would be quite useless to question him further. We heard nothing of Japp until the following evening, when he walked in about nine o'clock. I saw at once by his expression that he was bursting with news of some kind.
"Eh bien, my friend," remarked Poirot. "All goes well? But do not tell me that you have discovered the body of Mr Davenheim in your lake, because I shall not believe you."
"We haven't found the body, but we did find his clothes -the identical clothes he was wearing that day. What do you say to that?"
"Any other clothes missing from the house?"
"No, his valet is quite positive on that point. The rest of his wardrobe is intact. There's more. We've arrested Lowen. One of the maids, whose business it is to fasten the bedroom windows, declares that she saw Lowen coming towards the study through the rose-garden about a quarter past six. That would be about ten minutes before he left the house."
