Murder in the Mews

by Agatha Christie

“But I happen to know a lot about him. The man’s a marvel.”

  “Humph.”

  “Look here, Charles. It’s a chance! Discretion is the essence of this business. If it leaks out—”

  “When it leaks out is what you mean!”

  “Not necessarily. This man, Hercule Poirot—”

  “Will come down here and produce the plans like a conjurer taking rabbits out of his hat, I suppose?”

  “He’ll get at the truth. And the truth is what we want. Look here, Charles, I take all responsibility on myself.”

  Lord Mayfield said slowly:

  “Oh, well, have it your own way, but I don’t see what the fellow can do. . . .”

  Sir George picked up the phone.

  “I’m going to get through to him—now.”

  “He’ll be in bed.”

  “He can get up. Dash it all, Charles, you can’t let that woman get away with it.”

  “Mrs. Vanderlyn, you mean?”

  “Yes. You don’t doubt, do you, that she’s at the bottom of this?”

  “No, I don’t. She’s turned the tables on me with a vengeance. I don’t like admitting, George, that a woman’s been too clever for us. It goes against the grain. But it’s true. We shan’t be able to prove anything against her, and yet we both know that she’s been the prime mover in the affair.”

  “Women are the devil,” said Carrington with feeling.

  “Nothing to connect her with it, damn it all! We may believe that she put the girl up to that screaming trick, and that the man lurking outside was her accomplice, but the devil of it is we can’t prove it.”

  “Perhaps Hercule Poirot can.”

  Suddenly Lord Mayfield laughed.

  “By the Lord, George, I thought you were too much of an old John Bull to put your trust in a Frenchman, however clever.”

  “He’s not even a Frenchman, he’s a Belgian,” said Sir George in a rather shamefaced manner.

  “Well, have your Belgian down. Let him try his wits on this business. I’ll bet he can’t make more of it than we can.”

  Without replying, Sir George stretched a hand to the telephone.

  Four

  Blinking a little, Hercule Poirot turned his head from one man to the other. Very delicately he smothered a yawn.

  It was half past two in the morning. He had been roused from sleep and rushed down through the darkness in a big Rolls Royce. Now he had just finished hearing what the two men had to tell him.

  “Those are the facts, M. Poirot,” said Lord Mayfield.

  He leaned back in his chair, and slowly fixed his monocle in one eye. Through it a shrewd, pale-blue eye watched Poirot attentively. Besides being shrewd the eye was definitely sceptical. Poirot cast a swift glance at Sir George Carrington.

  That gentleman was leaning forward with an expression of almost childlike hopefulness on his face.

  Poirot said slowly:

  “I have the facts, yes. The maid screams, the secretary goes out, the nameless watcher comes in, the plans are there on top of the desk, he snatches them up and goes. The facts—they are all very convenient.”

  Something in the way he uttered the last phrase seemed to attract Lord Mayfield’s attention. He sat up a little straighter, his monocle dropped. It was as though a new alertness came to him.

  “I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?”

  “I said, Lord Mayfield, that the facts were all very convenient—for the thief. By the way, you are sure it was a man you saw?”

  Lord Mayfield shook his head.

  “That I couldn’t say. It was just a—shadow. In fact, I was almost doubtful if I had seen anyone.”

  Poirot transferred his gaze to the Air Marshal.

  “And you, Sir George? Could you say if it was a man or a woman?”

  “I didn’t see anyone myself.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he skipped suddenly to his feet and went over to the writing table.

  “I can assure you that the plans are not there,” said Lord Mayfield. “We have all three been through those papers half a dozen times.”

  “All three? You mean, your secretary also?”

  “Yes, Carlile.”

  Poirot turned suddenly.

  “Tell me, Lord Mayfield, which paper was on top when you went over to the desk?”

  Mayfield frowned a little in the effort of remembrance.

  “Let me see—yes, it was a rough memorandum of some sort of our air defence positions.”

  Deftly, Poirot nipped out a paper and brought it over.

  “Is this the one, Lord Mayfield?”

  Lord Mayfield took it and glanced over it.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Poirot took it over to Carrington.

  “Did you notice this paper on the desk?”

  Sir George took it, held it away from him, then slipped on his pince-nez.

  “Yes, that’s right. I looked through them too, with Carlile and Mayfield. This was on top.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He replaced the paper on the desk. Mayfield looked at him in a slightly puzzled manner.

  “If there are any other questions—” he began.

  “But yes, certainly there is a question. Carlile. Carlile is the question!”

  Lord Mayfield’s colour rose a little.

  “Carlile, M. Poirot, is quite above suspicion! He has been my confidential secretary for nine years. He has access to all my private papers, and I may point out to you that he could have made a copy of the plans and a tracing of the specifications quite easily without anyone being the wiser.”

  “I appreciate your point,” said Poirot. “If he had been guilty there would be no need for him to stage a clumsy robbery.”

  “In any case,” said Lord Mayfield, “I am sure of Carlile. I will guarantee him.”

  “Carlile,” said Carrington gruffly, “is all right.”

  Poirot spread out his hands gracefully.

  “And this Mrs. Vanderlyn—she is all wrong?”

  “She’s a wrong ’un all right,” said Sir George.

  Lord Mayfield said in more measured tones:

  “I think, M. Poirot, that there can be no doubt of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s—well—activities. The Foreign Office can give you more precious data as to that.”

  “And the maid, you take it, is in with her mistress?”

  “Not a doubt of it,” said Sir George.

  “It seems to me a plausible assumption,” said Lord Mayfield more cautiously.

  There was a pause. Poirot sighed, and absentmindedly rearranged one or two articles on a table at his right hand. Then he said:

  “I take it that these papers represented money? That is, the stolen papers would be definitely worth a large sum in cash.”

  “If presented in a certain quarter—yes.”

  “Such as?”

  Sir George mentioned the names of two European powers.

  Poirot nodded.

  “That fact would be known to anyone, I take it?”

  “Mrs. Vanderlyn would know it all right.”

  “I said to anyone?”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “Anyone with a minimum of intelligence would appreciate the cash value of the plans?”

  “Yes, but M. Poirot—” Lord Mayfield was looking rather uncomfortable.

  Poirot held up a hand.

  “I do what you call explore all the avenues.”

  Suddenly he rose again, stepped nimbly out of the window and with a flashlight examined the edge of the grass at the farther side of the terrace.

  The two men watched him.

  He came in again, sat down and said:

  “Tell me, Lord Mayfield, this malefactor, this skulker in the shadows, you do not have him pursued?”

  Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders.

  “At the bottom of the garden he could make his way out to a main road. If he had a car waiting there, he would soon be out of reach—”

  “But there are the police—the
A.A. scouts—”

  Sir George interrupted.

  “You forget, M. Poirot. We cannot risk publicity. If it were to get out that these plans had been stolen, the result would be extremely unfavourable to the Party.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Poirot. “One must remember La Politique. The great discretion must be observed. You send instead for me. Ah well, perhaps it is simpler.”

  “You are hopeful of success, M. Poirot?” Lord Mayfield sounded a trifle incredulous.

  The little man shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why not? One has only to reason—to reflect.”

  He paused a moment and then said:

  “I would like now to speak to Mr. Carlile.”

  “Certainly.” Lord Mayfield rose. “I asked him to wait up. He will be somewhere at hand.”

  He went out of the room.

  Poirot looked at Sir George.

  “Eh bien,” he said. “What about this man on the terrace?”

  “My dear M. Poirot. Don’t ask me! I didn’t see him, and I can’t describe him.”

  Poirot leaned forward.

  “So you have already said. But it is a little different from that is it not?”

  “What d’you mean?” asked Sir George abruptly.

  “How shall I say it? Your disbelief, it is more profound.”

  Sir George started to speak, then stopped.

  “But yes,” said Poirot encouragingly. “Tell me. You are both at the end of the terrace. Lord Mayfield sees a shadow slip from the window and across the grass. Why do you not see that shadow?”

  Carrington stared at him.

  “You’ve hit it, M. Poirot. I’ve been worrying about that ever since. You see, I’d swear that no one did leave this window. I thought Mayfield had imagined it—branch of a tree waving—something of that kind. And then when we came in here and found there had been a robbery, it seemed as though Mayfield must have been right and I’d been wrong. And yet—”

  Poirot smiled.

  “And yet you still in your heart of hearts believe in the evidence (the negative evidence) of your own eyes?”

  “You’re right, M. Poirot, I do.”

  Poirot gave a sudden smile.

  “How wise you are.”

  Sir George said sharply:

  “There were no footprints on the grass edge?”

  Poirot nodded.

  “Exactly. Lord Mayfield, he fancies he sees a shadow. Then there comes the robbery and he is sure—but sure! It is no longer a fancy—he actually saw the man. But that is not so. Me, I do not concern myself much with footprints and such things but for what it is worth we have that negative evidence. There were no footprints on the grass. It had rained heavily this evening. If a man had crossed the terrace to the grass this evening his footprints would have shown.”

  Sir George said, staring: “But then—but then—”

  “It brings us back to the house. To the people in the house.”

  He broke off as the door opened and Lord Mayfield entered with Mr. Carlile.

  Though still looking very pale and worried, the secretary had regained a certain composure of manner. Adjusting his pince-nez he sat down and looked at Poirot inquiringly.

  “How long had you been in this room when you heard the scream, monsieur?”

  Carlile considered.

  “Between five and ten minutes, I should say.”

  “And before that there had been no disturbance of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “I understand that the house party had been in one room for the greater part of the evening.”

  “Yes, the drawing room.”

  Poirot consulted his notebook.

  “Sir George Carrington and his wife. Mrs. Macatta. Mrs. Vanderlyn. Mr. Reggie Carrington. Lord Mayfield and yourself. Is that right?”

  “I myself was not in the drawing room. I was working here the greater part of the evening.”

  Poirot turned to Lord Mayfield.

  “Who went up to bed first?”

  “Lady Julia Carrington, I think. As a matter of fact, the three ladies went out together.”

  “And then?”

  “Mr. Carlile came in and I told him to get out the papers as Sir George and I would be along in a minute.”

  “It was then that you decided to take a turn on the terrace?”

  “It was.”

  “Was anything said in Mrs. Vanderlyn’s hearing as to your working in the study?”

  “The matter was mentioned, yes.”

  “But she was not in the room when you instructed Mr. Carlile to get out the papers?”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me, Lord Mayfield,” said Carlile. “Just after you had said that, I collided with her in the doorway. She had come back for a book.”

  “So you think she might have overheard?”

  “I think it quite possible, yes.”

  “She came back for a book,” mused Poirot. “Did you find her her book, Lord Mayfield?”

  “Yes, Reggie gave it to her.”

  “Ah, yes, it is what you call the old gasp—no, pardon, the old wheeze—that—to come back for a book. It is often useful!”

  “You think it was deliberate?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “And after that, you two gentlemen go out on the terrace. And Mrs. Vanderlyn?”

  “She went off with her book.”

  “And the young M. Reggie. He went to bed also?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Carlile he comes here and sometime between five and ten minutes later he heard a scream. Continue, M. Carlile. You heard a scream and you went out into the hall. Ah, perhaps it would be simplest if you reproduced exactly your actions.”

  Mr. Carlile got up a little awkwardly.

  “Here I scream,” said Poirot helpfully. He opened his mouth and emitted a shrill bleat. Lord Mayfield turned his head away to hide a smile and Mr. Carlile looked extremely uncomfortable.

  “Allez! Forward! March!” cried Poirot. “It is your cue that I give you there.”

  Mr. Carlile walked stiffly to the door, opened it and went out. Poirot followed him. The other two came behind.

  “The door, did you close it after you or leave it open?”

  “I can’t really remember. I think I must have left it open.”

  “No matter. Proceed.”

  Still with extreme stiffness, Mr. Carlile walked to the bottom of the staircase and stood there looking up.

  Poirot said:

  “The maid, you say, was on the stairs. Whereabouts?”

  “About halfway up.”

  “And she was looking upset.”

  “Definitely so.”

  “Eh bien, me, I am the maid.” Poirot ran nimbly up the stairs. “About here?”

  “A step or two higher.”

  “Like this?”

  Poirot struck an attitude.

  “Well—er—not quite like that.”

  “How then?”

  “Well, she had her hands to her head.”

  “Ah, her hands to her head. That is very interesting. Like this?” Poirot raised his arms, his hands rested on his head just above each ear.

  “Yes that’s it.”

  “Aha! And tell me, M. Carlile, she was a pretty girl—yes?”

  “Really, I didn’t notice.”

  Carlile’s voice was repressive.

  “Aha, you did not notice? But you are a young man. Does not a young man notice when a girl is pretty?”

  “Really, M. Poirot, I can only repeat that I did not do so.”

  Carlile cast an agonized glance at his employer. Sir George Carrington gave a sudden chuckle.

  “M. Poirot seems determined to make you out a gay dog, Carlile,” he remarked.

  “Me, I always notice when a girl is pretty,” announced Poirot as he descended the stairs.

  The silence with which Mr. Carlile greeted this remark was somewhat pointed. Poirot went on:

  “And it was then she told th
is tale of having seen a ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you believe the story?”

  “Well, hardly, M. Poirot!”

  “I do not mean, do you believe in ghosts. I mean, did it strike you that the girl herself really thought she had seen something?”

  “Oh, as to that, I couldn’t say. She was certainly breathing fast and seemed upset.”

  “You did not see or hear anything of her mistress?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. She came out of her room in the gallery above and called, ‘Leonie.’ ”

  “And then?”

  “The girl ran up to her and I went back to the study.”

  “Whilst you were standing at the foot of the stairs here, could anyone have entered the study by the door you had left open?”

  Carlile shook his head.

  “Not without passing me. The study door is at the end of the passage, as you see.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Mr. Carlile went on in his careful, precise voice.

  “I may say that I am very thankful that Lord Mayfield actually saw the thief leaving the window. Otherwise I myself should be in a very unpleasant position.”

  “Nonsense, my dear Carlile,” broke in Lord Mayfield impatiently. “No suspicion could possibly attach to you.”

  “It is very kind of you to say so, Lord Mayfield, but facts are facts, and I can quite see that it looks badly for me. In any case I hope that my belongings and myself may be searched.”

  “Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Mayfield.

  Poirot murmured:

  “You are serious in wishing that?”

  “I should infinitely prefer it.”

  Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two and murmured, “I see.”

  Then he asked:

  “Where is Mrs. Vanderlyn’s room situated in regard to the study?”

  “It is directly over it.”

  “With a window looking out over the terrace?”

  “Yes.”

  Again Poirot nodded. Then he said:

  “Let us go to the drawing room.”

  Here he wandered round the room, examined the fastenings of the windows, glanced at the scorers on the bridge table and then finally addressed Lord Mayfield.

  “This affair,” he said, “is more complicated than it appears. But one thing is quite certain. The stolen plans have not left this house.”

  Lord Mayfield stared at him.

  “But, my dear M. Poirot, the man I saw leaving the study—”