Cat Among the Pigeons

by Agatha Christie

  “Don’t argue with me, Jennifer. You’re coming back with me today. Your father insists.”

  “But, Mummy—”

  Arguing persistently Jennifer moved towards the house by her mother’s side.

  Suddenly she broke away and ran back to the tennis court.

  “Good-bye, Julia. Mummy seems to have got the wind up thoroughly. Daddy, too, apparently. Sickening, isn’t it? Good-bye, I’ll write to you.”

  “I’ll write to you, too, and tell you all that happens.”

  “I hope they don’t kill Chaddy next. I’d rather it was Mademoiselle Blanche, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. She’s the one we could spare best. I say, did you notice how black Miss Rich was looking?”

  “She hasn’t said a word. She’s furious at Mummy coming and taking me away.”

  “Perhaps she’ll stop her. She’s very forceful, isn’t she? Not like anyone else.”

  “She reminds me of someone,” said Jennifer.

  “I don’t think she’s a bit like anybody. She always seems to be quite different.”

  “Oh yes. She is different. I meant in appearance. But the person I knew was quite fat.”

  “I can’t imagine Miss Rich being fat.”

  “Jennifer … ” called Mrs. Sutcliffe.

  “I do think parents are trying,” said Jennifer crossly. “Fuss, fuss, fuss. They never stop. I do think you’re lucky to—”

  “I know. You said that before. But just at the moment, let me tell you, I wish Mummy were a good deal nearer, and not on a bus in Anatolia.”

  “Jennifer … ”

  “Coming….”

  Julia walked slowly in the direction of the Sports Pavilion. Her steps grew slower and slower and finally she stopped altogether. She stood, frowning, lost in thought.

  The luncheon bell sounded, but she hardly heard it. She stared down at the racquet she was holding, moved a step or two along the path, then wheeled round and marched determinedly towards the house. She went in by the front door, which was not allowed, and thereby avoided meeting any of the other girls. The hall was empty. She ran up the stairs to her small bedroom, looked round her hurriedly, then lifting the mattress on her bed, shoved the racquet flat beneath it. Then, rapidly smoothing her hair, she walked demurely downstairs to the dining room.

  Seventeen

  ALADDIN’S CAVE

  I

  The girls went up to bed that night more quietly than usual. For one thing their numbers were much depleted. At least thirty of them had gone home. The others reacted according to their several dispositions. Excitement, trepidation, a certain amount of giggling that was purely nervous in origin and there were some again who were merely quiet and thoughtful.

  Julia Upjohn went up quietly amongst the first wave. She went into her room and closed the door. She stood there listening to the whispers, giggles, footsteps and goodnights. Then silence closed down—or a near silence. Faint voices echoed in the distance, and footsteps went to and fro to the bathroom.

  There was no lock on the door. Julia pulled a chair against it, with the top of the chair wedged under the handle. That would give her warning if anyone should come in. But no one was likely to come in. It was strictly forbidden for the girls to go into each other’s rooms, and the only mistress who did so was Miss Johnson, if one of the girls was ill or out of sorts.

  Julia went to her bed, lifted up the mattress and groped under it. She brought out the tennis racquet and stood a moment holding it. She had decided to examine it now, and not later. A light in her room showing under the door might attract attention when all lights were supposed to be off. Now was the time when a light was normal for undressing and for reading in bed until half past ten if you wanted to do so.

  She stood staring down at the racquet. How could there be anything hidden in a tennis racquet?

  “But there must be,” said Julia to herself. “There must. The burglary at Jennifer’s home, the woman who came with that silly story about a new racquet….”

  Only Jennifer would have believed that, thought Julia scornfully.

  No, it was “new lamps for old” and that meant, like in Aladdin, that there was something about this particular tennis racquet. Jennifer and Julia had never mentioned to anyone that they had swopped racquets—or at least, she herself never had.

  So really then, this was the racquet that everyone was looking for in the Sports Pavilion. And it was up to her to find out why! She examined it carefully. There was nothing unusual about it to look at. It was a good quality racquet, somewhat the worse for wear, but restrung and eminently usable. Jennifer had complained of the balance.

  The only place you could possibly conceal anything in a tennis racquet was in the handle. You could, she supposed, hollow out the handle to make a hiding place. It sounded a little far-fetched but it was possible. And if the handle had been tampered with, that probably would upset the balance.

  There was a round of leather with lettering on it, the lettering almost worn away. That of course was only stuck on. If one removed that? Julia sat down at her dressing table and attacked it with a penknife and presently managed to pull the leather off. Inside was a round of thin wood. It didn’t look quite right. There was a join all round it. Julia dug in her penknife. The blade snapped. Nail scissors were more effective. She succeeded at last in prising it out. A mottled red and blue substance now showed. Julia poked it and enlightenment came to her. Plasticine! But surely handles of tennis racquets didn’t normally contain plasticine? She grasped the nail scissors firmly and began to dig out lumps of plasticine. The stuff was encasing something. Something that felt like buttons or pebbles.

  She attacked the plasticine vigorously.

  Something rolled out on the table—then another something. Presently there was quite a heap.

  Julia leaned back and gasped.

  She stared and stared and stared….

  Liquid fire, red and green and deep blue and dazzling white….

  In that moment, Julia grew up. She was no longer a child. She became a woman. A woman looking at jewels….

  All sorts of fantastic snatches of thought raced through her brain. Aladdin’s cave … Marguerite and her casket of jewels … (They had been taken to Covent Garden to hear Faust last week) … Fatal stones … the Hope diamond … Romance … herself in a black velvet gown with a flashing necklace round her throat….

  She sat and gloated and dreamed … She held the stones in her fingers and let them fall through in a rivulet of fire, a flashing stream of wonder and delight.

  And then something, some slight sound perhaps, recalled her to herself.

  She sat thinking, trying to use her common sense, deciding what she ought to do. That faint sound had alarmed her. She swept up the stones, took them to the washstand and thrust them into her sponge bag and rammed her sponge and nail brush down on top of them. Then she went back to the tennis racquet, forced the plasticine back inside it, replaced the wooden top and tried to gum down the leather on top again. It curled upwards, but she managed to deal with that by applying adhesive plaster the wrong way up in thin strips and then pressing the leather on to it.

  It was done. The racquet looked and felt just as before, its weight hardly altered in feel. She looked at it and then cast it down carelessly on a chair.

  She looked at her bed, neatly turned down and waiting. But she did not undress. Instead she sat listening. Was that a footstep outside?

  Suddenly and unexpectedly she knew fear. Two people had been killed. If anyone knew what she had found, she would be killed.

  There was a fairly heavy oak chest of drawers in the room. She managed to drag it in front of the door, wishing that it was the custom at Meadowbank to have keys in the locks. She went to the window, pulled up the top sash and bolted it. There was no tree growing near the window and no creepers. She doubted if it was possible for anyone to come in that way but she was not going to take any chances.

  She looked at her small clock. Half past
ten. She drew a deep breath and turned out the light. No one must notice anything unusual. She pulled back the curtain a little from the window. There was a full moon and she could see the door clearly. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed. In her hand she held the stoutest shoe she possessed.

  “If anyone tries to come in,” Julia said to herself, “I’ll rap on the wall here as hard as I can. Mary King is next door and that will wake her up. And I’ll scream—at the top of my voice. And then, if lots of people come, I’ll say I had a nightmare. Anyone might have a nightmare after all the things that have been going on here.”

  She sat there and time passed. Then she heard it—a soft step along the passage. She heard it stop outside her door. A long pause and then she saw the handle slowly turning.

  Should she scream? Not yet.

  The door was pushed—just a crack, but the chest of drawers held it. That must have puzzled the person outside.

  Another pause, and then there was a knock, a very gentle little knock, on the door.

  Julia held her breath. A pause, and then the knock came again—but still soft and muted.

  “I’m asleep,” said Julia to herself. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Who would come and knock on her door in the middle of the night? If it was someone who had a right to knock, they’d call out, rattle the handle, make a noise. But this person couldn’t afford to make a noise….

  For a long time Julia sat there. The knock was not repeated, the handle stayed immovable. But Julia sat tense and alert.

  She sat like that for a long time. She never knew herself how long it was before sleep overcame her. The school bell finally awoke her, lying in a cramped and uncomfortable heap on the edge of the bed.

  II

  After breakfast, the girls went upstairs and made their beds, then went down to prayers in the big hall and finally dispersed to various classrooms.

  It was during that last exercise, when girls were hurrying in different directions, that Julia went into one classroom, out by a further door, joined a group hurrying round the house, dived behind a rhododendron, made a series of further strategic dives and arrived finally near the wall of the grounds where a lime tree had thick growth almost down to the ground. Julia climbed the tree with ease, she had climbed trees all her life. Completely hidden in the leafy branches, she sat, glancing from time to time at her watch. She was fairly sure she would not be missed for some time. Things were disorganized, two teachers were missing, and more than half the girls had gone home. That meant that all classes would have been reorganized, so nobody would be likely to observe the absence of Julia Upjohn until lunchtime and by then—

  Julia looked at her watch again, scrambled easily down the tree to the level of the wall, straddled it and dropped neatly on the other side. A hundred yards away was a bus stop where a bus ought to arrive in a few minutes. It duly did so, and Julia hailed and boarded it, having by now abstracted a felt hat from inside her cotton frock and clapped it on her slightly dishevelled hair. She got out at the station and took a train to London.

  In her room, propped up on the washstand, she had left a note addressed to Miss Bulstrode.

  Dear Miss Bulstrode,

  I have not been kidnapped or run away, so don’t worry. I will come back as soon as I can.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Julia Upjohn

  III

  At 228 Whitehouse Mansions, George, Hercule Poirot’s immaculate valet and manservant, opened the door and contemplated with some surprise a schoolgirl with a rather dirty face.

  “Can I see M. Hercule Poirot, please?”

  George took just a shade longer than usual to reply. He found the caller unexpected.

  “Mr. Poirot does not see anyone without an appointment,” he said.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t time to wait for that. I really must see him now. It is very urgent. It’s about some murders and a robbery and things like that.”

  “I will ascertain,” said George, “if Mr. Poirot will see you.”

  He left her in the hall and withdrew to consult his master.

  “A young lady, sir, who wishes to see you urgently.”

  “I daresay,” said Hercule Poirot. “But things do not arrange themselves as easily as that.”

  “That is what I told her, sir.”

  “What kind of a young lady?”

  “Well, sir, she’s more of a little girl.”

  “A little girl? A young lady? Which do you mean, Georges? They are really not the same.”

  “I’m afraid you did not quite get my meaning sir. She is, I should say, a little girl—of school age, that is to say. But though her frock is dirty and indeed torn, she is essentially a young lady.”

  “A social term. I see.”

  “And she wishes to see you about some murders and a robbery.”

  Poirot’s eyebrows went up.

  “Some murders, and a robbery. Original. Show the little girl—the young lady—in.”

  Julia came into the room with only the slightest trace of diffidence. She spoke politely and quite naturally.

  “How do you do, M. Poirot. I am Julia Upjohn. I think you know a great friend of Mummy’s. Mrs. Summerhayes. We stayed with her last summer and she talked about you a lot.”

  “Mrs. Summerhayes … ” Poirot’s mind went back to a village that climbed a hill and to a house on top of that hill. He recalled a charming freckled face, a sofa with broken springs, a large quantity of dogs, and other things both agreeable and disagreeable.

  “Maureen Summerhayes,” he said. “Ah yes.”

  “I call her Aunt Maureen, but she isn’t really an aunt at all. She told us how wonderful you’d been and saved a man who was in prison for murder, and when I couldn’t think of what to do and who to go to, I thought of you.”

  “I am honoured,” said Poirot gravely.

  He brought forward a chair for her.

  “Now tell me,” he said. “Georges, my servant, told me you wanted to consult me about a robbery and some murders—more than one murder, then?”

  “Yes,” said Julia. “Miss Springer and Miss Vansittart. And of course there’s the kidnapping, too—but I don’t think that’s really my business.”

  “You bewilder me,” said Poirot. “Where have all these exciting happenings taken place?”

  “At my school—Meadowbank.”

  “Meadowbank,” exclaimed Poirot. “Ah.” He stretched out his hand to where the newspapers lay neatly folded beside him. He unfolded one and glanced over the front page, nodding his head.

  “I begin to comprehend,” he said. “Now tell me, Julia, tell me everything from the beginning.”

  Julia told him. It was quite a long story and a comprehensive one—but she told it clearly—with an occasional break as she went back over something she had forgotten.

  She brought her story up to the moment when she had examined the tennis racquet in her bedroom last night.

  “You see, I thought it was just like Aladdin—new lamps for old—and there must be something about that tennis racquet.”

  “And there was?”

  “Yes.”

  Without any false modesty, Julia pulled up her skirt, rolled up her knicker leg nearly to her thigh and exposed what looked like a grey poultice attached by adhesive plaster to the upper part of her leg.

  She tore off the strips of plaster, uttering an anguished “Ouch” as she did so, and freed the poultice which Poirot now perceived to be a packet enclosed in a portion of grey plastic sponge bag. Julia unwrapped it and without warning poured a heap of glittering stones on the table.

  “Nom d’un nom d’un nom!” ejaculated Poirot in an awe-inspired whisper.

  He picked them up, letting them run through his fingers.

  “Nom d’un nom d’un nom! But they are real. Genuine.”

  Julia nodded.

  “I think they must be. People wouldn’t kill other people for them otherwise, would they? But I can understand people killing for these!�
��

  And suddenly, as had happened last night, a woman looked out of the child’s eyes.

  Poirot looked keenly at her and nodded.

  “Yes—you understand—you feel the spell. They cannot be to you just pretty coloured playthings—more is the pity.”

  “They’re jewels!” said Julia, in tones of ecstasy.

  “And you found them, you say, in this tennis racquet?”

  Julia finished her recital.

  “And you have now told me everything?”

  “I think so. I may, perhaps, have exaggerated a little here and there. I do exaggerate sometimes. Now Jennifer, my great friend, she’s the other way round. She can make the most exciting things sound dull.” She looked again at the shining heap. “M. Poirot, who do they really belong to?”

  “It is probably very difficult to say. But they do not belong to either you or to me. We have to decide now what to do next.”

  Julia looked at him in an expectant fashion.

  “You leave yourself in my hands? Good.”

  Hercule Poirot closed his eyes.

  Suddenly he opened them and became brisk.

  “It seems that this is an occasion when I cannot, as I prefer, remain in my chair. There must be order and method, but in what you tell me, there is no order and method. That is because we have here many threads. But they all converge and meet at one place, Meadowbank. Different people, with different aims, and representing different interests—all converge at Meadowbank. So, I, too, go to Meadowbank. And as for you—where is your mother?”

  “Mummy’s gone in a bus to Anatolia.”

  “Ah, your mother has gone in a bus to Anatolia. Il ne manquait que ça! I perceive well that she might be a friend of Mrs. Summerhayes! Tell me, did you enjoy your visit with Mrs. Summerhayes?”

  “Oh yes, it was great fun. She’s got some lovely dogs.”

  “The dogs, yes, I well remember.”

  “They come in and out through all the windows—like in a pantomime.”