Poirot Investigates

COPYRIGHT

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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First published in Great Britain by

The Bodley Head Ltd 1924

Agatha Christie® Poirot® Poirot Investigates™

Copyright © 1924 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

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Source ISBN: 9780008164836

Ebook Edition © September 2016 ISBN: 9780007422715

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

The Adventure of ‘The Western Star’

The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor

The Adventure of the Cheap Flat

The Mystery of Hunter’s Lodge

The Million Dollar Bond Robbery

The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb

The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan

The Kidnapped Prime Minister

The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim

The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman

The Case of the Missing Will

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

The Adventure of ‘The Western Star’

I was standing at the window of Poirot’s rooms looking out idly on the street below.

‘That’s queer,’ I ejaculated suddenly beneath my breath.

‘What is, mon ami?’ asked Poirot placidly, from the depths of his comfortable chair.

‘Deduce, Poirot, from the following facts! Here is a young lady, richly dressed—fashionable hat, magnificent furs. She is coming along slowly, looking up at the houses as she goes. Unknown to her, she is being shadowed by three men and a middle-aged woman. They have just been joined by an errand boy who points after the girl, gesticulating as he does so. What drama is this being played? Is the girl a crook, and are the shadowers detectives preparing to arrest her? Or are they the scoundrels, and are they plotting to attack an innocent victim? What does the great detective say?’

‘The great detective, mon ami, chooses, as ever, the simplest course. He rises to see for himself.’ And my friend joined me at the window.

In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.

‘As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism. This is Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by a bevy of admirers who have recognized her. And, en passant, my dear Hastings, she is quite aware of the fact!’

I laughed.

‘So all is explained! But you get no marks for that, Poirot. It was a mere matter of recognition.’

‘En vérité! And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the screen, mon cher?’

I thought.

‘About a dozen times perhaps.’

‘And I—once! Yet I recognize her, and you do not.’

‘She looks so different,’ I replied rather feebly.

‘Ah! Sacré!’ cried Poirot. ‘Is it that you expect her to promenade herself in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare feet, and a bunch of curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you it is the non-essentials! Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie Saintclair.’

I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.

‘But console yourself, mon ami,’ said Poirot, calming down. ‘All cannot be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.’

‘You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever knew!’ I cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.

‘What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share that opinion—even, if I mistake it not, Miss Mary Marvell.’

‘What?’

‘Without doubt. She is coming here.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, mon ami! In it there is no fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still less is there a fashionable milliner! But there is a fashionable detective. Oui, my friend, it is true—I am become the mode, the dernier cri! One says to another: “Comment? You have lost your gold pencil-case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too marvellous! Everyone goes! Courez!” And they arrive! In flocks, mon ami! With problems of the most foolish!’ A bell rang below. ‘What did I tell you? That is Miss Marvell.’

As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American film star was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.

Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on the screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with her husband, Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage had taken place about a year ago in the States and this was their first visit to England. They had been given a great reception. Everyone was prepared to go mad over Mary Marvell, her wonderful clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one jewel, the great diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner, ‘The Western Star’. Much, true and untrue, had been written about this famous stone which was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of fifty thousand pounds.

All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with Poirot in greeting our fair client.

Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish-looking, with the wide innocent blue eyes of a child.

Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at once.

‘You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up the mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have your advice. I dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but it’s just worrying me to death.’

She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.

‘Proceed, madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.’

‘It’s these letters.’ Miss Marvell unclasped her handbag, and drew out three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.

The latter scrutinized them closely.

‘Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see the inside.’ He drew out the enclosure.

I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing consisted of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope. It ran as follows:

‘The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return whence it came.’

The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the third was more explicit:

‘You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will be taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which are the left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is written.’

‘The first letter I treated as a joke,’ explained Miss Marvell. ‘When I got the second, I began to wonder. The third one came yesterday, and it seemed to me that, after all, the matter might be more serious than I had imagined.’

‘I see they did not come by post, these letters.’

‘No; they were left by hand—by a Chinaman. That is what frightens me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought the stone three years ago.’

‘I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be—’

‘“The Western Star,”’ finished Miss Marvell. ‘That’s so. At the time, Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the stone, but the Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory says he seemed just scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get rid of the thing. He only asked about a tenth of its value. It was Greg’s wedding present to me.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

‘The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.’

I complied.

‘Voyons!’ said Poirot, turning the leaves. ‘When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in three days’ time. Eh bien, madame, you seek my advice—I give it to you. This belle histoire may be a hoax—but it may not! Therefore I counsel you to place the diamond in my keeping until after Friday next. Then we can take what steps we please.’

A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied constrainedly:

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’

‘You have it with you—hein?’ Poirot was watching her narrowly.

The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom of her gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward, unclosing her hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely set in platinum, lay and winked at us solemnly.

Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.

‘Épatant!’ he murmured. ‘You permit, madame?’ He took the jewel in his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her with a little bow. ‘A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, cent tonnerres! and you carry it about with you, comme ça!’

‘No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s locked up in my jewel-case, and left in the hotel safe deposit. We’re staying at the Magnificent, you know. I just brought it along today for you to see.’

‘And you will leave it with me, n’est-ce pas? You will be advised by Papa Poirot?’

‘Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re going down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady Yardly.’

Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had paid a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had rather gone the pace out there with the assistance of some lady friends—but surely there was something more, some gossip which coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a ‘movie’ star in California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it was none other than Gregory B. Rolf.

‘I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,’ Miss Marvell was continuing. ‘We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some chance of our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral pile.’

‘At Yardly Chase?’ I cried, interested. ‘Why, it’s one of the show places of England.’

Miss Marvell nodded.

‘I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a pretty stiff price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal will go through, but Greg and I always like to combine business with pleasure.’

‘But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible to visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?’

A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied their childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.

‘I want to wear it down there.’

‘Surely,’ I said suddenly, ‘there are some very famous jewels in the Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?’

‘That’s so,’ said Miss Marvell briefly.

I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: ‘Ah, c’est comme ça!’ Then he said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the bull’s-eye (he dignifies it by the name of psychology): ‘Then you are without doubt already acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps your husband is?’

‘Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,’ said Miss Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: ‘Do either of you ever see Society Gossip?’

We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.

‘I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous jewels, and it’s really very curious—’ She broke off.

I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned with the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found the article, and began to read aloud:

‘… Amongst other famous stones may be included The Star of the East, a diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor of the present Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China, and a romantic story is said to attach to it. According to this, the stone was once the right eye of a temple god. Another diamond, exactly similar in form and size, formed the left eye, and the story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be stolen. “One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.” It is a curious coincidence that there is at the present time a stone corresponding closely in description with this one, and known as “The Star of the West”, or “The Western Star”. It is the property of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary Marvell. A comparison of the two stones would be interesting.’

She stopped.

‘Épatant!’ murmured Poirot. ‘Without doubt a romance of the first water.’ He turned to Mary Marvell. ‘And you are not afraid, madame? You have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce these two Siamese twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear and, hey presto! whisk them both back to China?’

His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of seriousness lay beneath it.

‘I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as good a stone as mine,’ said Miss Marvell. ‘Anyway, I’m going to see.’

What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment the door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the room. From his crisply curling black head, to the tips of his patent-leather boots, he was a hero fit for romance.

‘I said I’d call round for you, Mary,’ said Gregory Rolf, ‘and here I am. Well, what does Monsieur Poirot say to our little problem? Just one big hoax, same as I do?’

Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.

‘Hoax or no hoax, Mr Rolf,’ he said dryly, ‘I have advised Madame your wife not to take the jewel with her to Yardly Chase on Friday.’

‘I’m with you there, sir. I’ve already said so to Mary. But there! She’s a woman through and through, and I guess she can’t bear to think of another woman outshining her in the jewel line.’

‘What nonsense, Gregory!’ said Mary Marvell sharply. But she flushed angrily.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Madame, I have advised. I can do no more. C’est fini.’

He bowed them both to the door.

‘Ah! la la,’ he observed, returning. ‘Histoire des femmes! The good husband, he hit the nail on the head—tout de même, but he was not tactful! Assuredly not.’

I imparted to him my vague remembrances, and he nodded vigorously.

‘So I thought. All the same, there is something curious underneath all this. With your permission, mon ami, I will take the air. Await my return, I beg of you, I shall not be long.’

I was half asleep in my chair when the landlady tapped on the door, and put her head in.

‘It’s another lady to see Mr Poirot, sir. I’ve told her he was out, but she says as how she’ll wait, seeing as she’s come up from the country.’

‘Oh, show her in here, Mrs Murchinson. Perhaps I can do something for her.’

In another moment the lady had been ushered in. My heart gave a leap as I recognized her. Lady Yardly’s portrait had figured too often in the Society papers to allow her to remain unknown.

‘Do sit down, Lady Yardly,’ I said, drawing forward a chair. ‘My friend, Poirot, is out, but I know for a fact that he’ll be back very shortly.’

She thanked me and sat down. A very different type, this, from Miss Mary Marvell. Tall, dark, with flashing eyes, and a pale proud face—yet something wistful in the curves of the mouth.

I felt a desire to rise to the occasion. Why not? In Poirot’s presence I have frequently felt a difficulty—I do not appear at my best. And yet there is no doubt that I, too, possess the deductive sense in a marked degree. I leant forward on a sudden impulse.

‘Lady Yardly,’ I said, ‘I know why you have come here. You have received blackmailing letters about the diamond.’

There was no doubt as to my bolt having shot home. She stared at me open-mouthed, all colour banished from her cheeks.

‘You know?’ she gasped. ‘How?’

I smiled.

‘By a perfectly logical process. If Miss Marvell has had warning letters—’

‘Miss Marvell? She has been here?’

‘She has just left. As I was saying, if she, as the holder of one of the twin diamonds, has received a mysterious series of warnings, you, as the holder of the other stone, must necessarily have done the same. You see how simple it is? I am right, then, you have received these strange communications also?’

For a moment she hesitated, as though in doubt whether to trust me or not, then she bowed her head in assent with a little smile.

‘That is so,’ she acknowledged.

‘Were yours, too, left by hand—by a Chinaman?’

‘No, they came by post; but tell me, has Miss Marvell undergone the same experience, then?’

I recounted to her the events of the morning. She listened attentively.

‘It all fits in. My letters are the duplicates of hers. It is true that they came by post, but there is a curious perfume impregnating them—something in the nature of joss-stick—that at once suggested the East to me. What does it all mean?’

I shook my head.

‘That is what we must find out. You have the letters with you? We might learn something from the postmarks.’

‘Unfortunately I destroyed them. You understand, at the time I regarded it as some foolish joke. Can it be true that some Chinese gang are really trying to recover the diamonds? It seems too incredible.’

We went over the facts again and again, but could get no further towards the elucidation of the mystery. At last Lady Yardly rose.

‘I really don’t think I need wait for Monsieur Poirot. You can tell him all this, can’t you? Thank you so much Mr—’

She hesitated, her hand outstretched.

‘Captain Hastings.’

‘Of course! How stupid of me. You’re a friend of the Cavendishes, aren’t you? It was Mary Cavendish who sent me to Monsieur Poirot.’

When my friend returned, I enjoyed telling him the tale of what had occurred during his absence. He cross-questioned me rather sharply over the details of our conversation and I could read between the lines that he was not best pleased to have been absent. I also fancied that the dear old fellow was just the least inclined to be jealous. It had become rather a pose with him to consistently belittle my abilities, and I think he was chagrined at finding no loophole for criticism. I was secretly rather pleased with myself, though I tried to conceal the fact for fear of irritating him. In spite of his idiosyncrasies, I was deeply attached to my quaint little friend.

‘Bien!’ he said at length, with a curious look on his face. ‘The plot develops. Pass me, I pray you, that Peerage on the top shelf there.’ He turned the leaves. ‘Ah, here we are! “Yardly…10th viscount, served South African War”…tout ça n’a pas d’importance…“mar. 1907 Hon. Maude Stopperton, fourth daughter of 3rd Baron Cotteril”…um, um, um…“has iss. two daughters, born 1908, 1910… Clubs, residences”… Voilà, that does not tell us much. But tomorrow morning we see this milord!’

‘What?’

‘Yes. I telegraphed to him.’

‘I thought you had washed your hands of the case?’

‘I am not acting for Miss Marvell since she refuses to be guided by my advice. What I do now is for my own satisfaction—the satisfaction of Hercule Poirot! Decidedly, I must have a finger in this pie.’

‘And you calmly wire Lord Yardly to dash up to town just to suit your convenience. He won’t be pleased.’

‘Au contraire, if I preserve for him his family diamond, he ought to be very grateful.’

‘Then you really think there is any chance of it being stolen?’ I asked eagerly.

‘Almost a certainty,’ replied Poirot placidly. ‘Everything points that way.’

‘But how—’

Poirot stopped my eager questions with an airy gesture of the hand.

‘Not now, I pray you. Let us not confuse the mind. And observe that Peerage—how you have replaced him! See you not that the tallest books go in the top shelf, the next tallest in the row beneath, and so on. Thus we have order, method, which, as I have often told you, Hastings—’

‘Exactly,’ I said hastily, and put the offending volume in its proper place.

Lord Yardly turned out to be a cheery, loud-voiced sportsman with a rather red face, but with a good-humoured bonhomie about him that was distinctly attractive and made up for any lack of mentality.

‘Extraordinary business this, Monsieur Poirot. Can’t make head or tail of it. Seems my wife’s been getting odd kind of letters, and that Miss Marvell’s had ‘em too. What does it all mean?’

Poirot handed him the copy of Society Gossip.

‘First, milord, I would ask you if these facts are substantially correct?’

The peer took it. His face darkened with anger as he read.

‘Damned nonsense!’ he spluttered. ‘There’s never been any romantic story attaching to the diamond. It came from India originally, I believe. I never heard of all this Chinese god stuff.’

‘Still, the stone is known as “The Star of the East”.’

‘Well, what if it is?’ he demanded wrathfully.

Poirot smiled a little, but made no direct reply.

‘What I would ask you to do, milord, is to place yourself in my hands. If you do so unreservedly, I have great hopes of averting the catastrophe.’

‘Then you think there’s actually something in these wildcat tales?’

‘Will you do as I ask you?’

‘Of course I will, but—’

‘Bien! Then permit that I ask you a few questions. This affair of Yardly Chase, is it, as you say, all fixed up between you and Mr Rolf?’

‘Oh, he told you about it, did he? No, there’s nothing settled.’ He hesitated, the brick-red colour of his face deepening. ‘Might as well get the thing straight. I’ve made rather an ass of myself in many ways, Monsieur Poirot—and I’m head over ears in debt—but I want to pull up. I’m fond of the kids, and I want to straighten things up, and be able to live on at the old place. Gregory Rolf is offering me big money—enough to set me on my feet again. I don’t want to do it—I hate the thought of all that crowd play-acting round the Chase—but I may have to, unless—’ He broke off.

Poirot eyed him keenly. ‘You have, then, another string to your bow? Permit that I make a guess? It is to sell The Star of the East?’

Lord Yardly nodded. ‘That’s it. It’s been in the family for some generations, but it’s not essential. Still, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to find a purchaser. Hoffberg, the Hatton Garden man, is on the lookout for a likely customer, but he’ll have to find one soon, or it’s a washout.’

‘One more question, permettez—Lady Yardly, which plan does she approve?’

‘Oh, she’s bitterly opposed to my selling the jewel. You know what women are. She’s all for this film stunt.’

‘I comprehend,’ said Poirot. He remained a moment or so in thought, then rose briskly to his feet. ‘You return to Yardly Chase at once? Bien! Say no word to anyone—to anyone, mind—but expect us there this evening. We will arrive shortly after five.’

‘All right, but I don’t see—’

‘Ça n’a pas d’importance,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘You will that I preserve for you your diamond, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then do as I say.’

A sadly bewildered nobleman left the room.

It was half-past five when we arrived at Yardly Chase, and followed the dignified butler to the old panelled hall with its fire of blazing logs. A pretty picture met our eyes: Lady Yardly and her two children, the mother’s proud dark head bent down over the two fair ones. Lord Yardly stood near, smiling down on them.

‘Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings,’ announced the butler.

Lady Yardly looked up with a start, her husband came forward uncertainly, his eyes seeking instruction from Poirot. The little man was equal to the occasion.

‘All my excuses! It is that I investigate still this affair of Miss Marvell’s. She comes to you on Friday, does she not? I make a little tour first to make sure that all is secure. Also I wanted to ask of Lady Yardly if she recollected at all the postmarks on the letters she received?’

Lady Yardly shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t. It’s stupid of me. But, you see, I never dreamt of taking them seriously.’

‘You’ll stay the night?’ said Lord Yardly.

‘Oh, milord, I fear to incommode you. We have left our bags at the inn.’

‘That’s all right.’ Lord Yardly had his cue. ‘We’ll send down for them. No, no—no trouble, I assure you.’

Poirot permitted himself to be persuaded, and sitting down by Lady Yardly, began to make friends with the children. In a short time they were all romping together, and had dragged me into the game.

‘Vous êtes bonne mère,’ said Poirot, with a gallant little bow, as the children were removed reluctantly by a stern nurse.

Lady Yardly smoothed her ruffled hair.

‘I adore them,’ she said with a little catch in her voice.

‘And they you—with reason!’ Poirot bowed again.

A dressing-gong sounded, and we rose to go up to our rooms. At that moment the butler entered with a telegram on a salver which he handed to Lord Yardly. The latter tore it open with a brief word of apology. As he read it he stiffened visibly.

With an ejaculation he handed it to his wife. Then he glanced at my friend.

‘Just a minute, Monsieur Poirot, I feel you ought to know about this. It’s from Hoffberg. He thinks he’s found a customer for the diamond—an American, sailing for the States tomorrow. They’re sending down a chap tonight to vet the stone. By Jove, though, if this goes through—’ Words failed him.

Lady Yardly had turned away. She still held the telegram in her hand.

‘I wish you wouldn’t sell it, George,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘It’s been in the family so long.’ She waited, as though for a reply, but when none came her face hardened. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I must go and dress. I suppose I had better display “the goods”.’ She turned to Poirot with a slight grimace. ‘It’s one of the most hideous necklaces that was ever designed! George has always promised to have the stones reset for me, but it’s never been done.’ She left the room.

Half an hour later, we three were assembled in the great drawing-room awaiting the lady. It was already a few minutes past the dinner hour.

Suddenly there was a low rustle, and Lady Yardly appeared framed in the doorway, a radiant figure in a long white shimmering dress. Round the column of her neck was a rivulet of fire. She stood there with one hand just touching the necklace.

‘Behold the sacrifice,’ she said gaily. Her ill-humour seemed to have vanished. ‘Wait while I turn the big light on and you shall feast your eyes on the ugliest necklace in England.’

The switches were just outside the door. As she stretched out her hand to them, the incredible thing happened. Suddenly, without any warning, every light was extinguished, the door banged, and from the other side of it came a long-drawn piercing woman’s scream.

‘My God!’ cried Lord Yardly. ‘That was Maude’s voice! What has happened?’

We rushed blindly for the door, cannoning into each other in the darkness. It was some minutes before we could find it. What a sight met our eyes! Lady Yardly lay senseless on the marble floor, a crimson mark on her white throat where the necklace had been wrenched from her neck.

As we bent over her, uncertain for the moment whether she was dead or alive, her eyelids opened.

‘The Chinaman,’ she whispered painfully. ‘The Chinaman—the side door.’

Lord Yardly sprang up with an oath. I accompanied him, my heart beating wildly. The Chinaman again! The side door in question was a small one in the angle of the wall, not more than a dozen yards from the scene of the tragedy. As we reached it, I gave a cry. There, just short of the threshold, lay the glittering necklace, evidently dropped by the thief in the panic of his flight. I swooped joyously down on it. Then I uttered another cry which Lord Yardly echoed. For in the middle of the necklace was a great gap. The Star of the East was missing!

‘That settles it,’ I breathed. ‘These were no ordinary thieves. This one stone was all they wanted.’

‘But how did the fellow get in?’

‘Through this door.’

‘But it’s always locked.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s not locked now. See.’ I pulled it open as I spoke.

As I did so something fluttered to the ground. I picked it up. It was a piece of silk, and the embroidery was unmistakable. It had been torn from a Chinaman’s robe.

‘In his haste it caught in the door,’ I explained. ‘Come, hurry. He cannot have gone far as yet.’

But in vain we hunted and searched. In the pitch darkness of the night, the thief had found it easy to make his getaway. We returned reluctantly, and Lord Yardly sent off one of the footmen post-haste to fetch the police.

Lady Yardly, aptly ministered to by Poirot, who is as good as a woman in these matters, was sufficiently recovered to be able to tell her story.

‘I was just going to turn on the other light,’ she said, ‘when a man sprang on me from behind. He tore my necklace from my neck with such force that I fell headlong to the floor. As I fell I saw him disappearing through the side door. Then I realized by the pigtail and the embroidered robe that he was a Chinaman.’ She stopped with a shudder.

The butler reappeared. He spoke in a low voice to Lord Yardly.

‘A gentleman from Mr Hoffberg’s, m’lord. He says you expect him.’

‘Good heavens!’ cried the distracted nobleman. ‘I must see him, I suppose. No, not here, Mullings, in the library.’

I drew Poirot aside.

‘Look here, my dear fellow, hadn’t we better get back to London?’

‘You think so, Hastings? Why?’

‘Well’—I coughed delicately—‘things haven’t gone very well, have they? I mean, you tell Lord Yardly to place himself in your hands and all will be well—and then the diamond vanishes from under your very nose!’

‘True,’ said Poirot, rather crestfallen. ‘It was not one of my most striking triumphs.’

This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I stuck to my guns.

‘So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things, don’t you think it would be more graceful to leave immediately?’

‘And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the chef of Lord Yardly has prepared?’

‘Oh, what’s dinner!’ I said impatiently.

Poirot held up his hands in horror.

‘Mon Dieu! It is that in this country you treat the affairs gastronomic with a criminal indifference.’

‘There’s another reason why we should get back to London as soon as possible,’ I continued.

‘What is that, my friend?’

‘The other diamond,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘Miss Marvell’s.’

‘Eh bien, what of it?’

‘Don’t you see?’ His unusual obtuseness annoyed me. What had happened to his usually keen wits? ‘They’ve got one, now they’ll go for the other.’

‘Tiens!’ cried Poirot, stepping back a pace and regarding me with admiration. ‘But your brain marches to a marvel, my friend! Figure to yourself that for the moment I had not thought of that! But there is plenty of time. The full of the moon, it is not until Friday.’

I shook my head dubiously. The full of the moon theory left me entirely cold. I had my way with Poirot, however, and we departed immediately, leaving behind us a note of explanation and apology for Lord Yardly.

My idea was to go at once to the Magnificent, and relate to Miss Marvell what had occurred, but Poirot vetoed the plan, and insisted that the morning would be time enough. I gave in rather grudgingly.

In the morning Poirot seemed strangely disinclined to stir out. I began to suspect that, having made a mistake to start with, he was singularly loath to proceed with the case. In answer to my persuasions, he pointed out, with admirable common sense, that as the details of the affair at Yardly Chase were already in the morning papers the Rolfs would know quite as much as we could tell them. I gave way unwillingly.

Events proved my forebodings to be justified. About two o’clock, the telephone rang. Poirot answered it. He listened for some moments, then with a brief ‘Bien, j’y serai’ he rang off, and turned to me.

‘What do you think, mon ami?’ He looked half ashamed, half excited. ‘The diamond of Miss Marvell, it has been stolen.’

‘What?’ I cried, springing up. ‘And what about the “full of the moon” now?’ Poirot hung his head. ‘When did this happen?’

‘This morning, I understand.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘If only you had listened to me. You see I was right.’

‘It appears so, mon ami,’ said Poirot cautiously. ‘Appearances are deceptive, they say, but it certainly appears so.’

As we hurried in a taxi to the Magnificent, I puzzled out the true inwardness of the scheme.

‘That “full of the moon” idea was clever. The whole point of it was to get us to concentrate on the Friday, and so be off our guard beforehand. It is a pity you did not realize that.’

‘Ma foi!’ said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored after its brief eclipse. ‘One cannot think of everything!’

I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind.

‘Cheer up,’ I said consolingly. ‘Better luck next time.’

At the Magnificent, we were ushered at once into the manager’s office. Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A pale-faced clerk sat opposite them.

Rolf nodded to us as we entered.

‘We’re getting to the bottom of it,’ he said. ‘But it’s almost unbelievable. How the guy had the nerve I can’t think.’

A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr Rolf had gone out of the hotel at 11.15. At 11.30, a gentleman, so like him in appearance as to pass muster, entered the hotel and demanded the jewel-case from the safe deposit. He duly signed the receipt, remarking carelessly as he did so: ‘Looks a bit different from my ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi.’ The clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference. Rolf laughed and said: ‘Well, don’t run me in as a crook this time, anyway. I’ve been getting threatening letters from a Chinaman, and the worst of it is I look rather like a Chink myself—it’s something about the eyes.’

‘I looked at him,’ said the clerk who was telling us this, ‘and I saw at once what he meant. The eyes slanted up at the corners like an Oriental’s. I’d never noticed it before.’

‘Darn it all, man,’ roared Gregory Rolf, leaning forward, ‘do you notice it now?’

The man looked up at him and started.

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I do.’ And indeed there was nothing even remotely Oriental about the frank brown eyes that looked into ours.

The Scotland Yard man grunted. ‘Bold customer. Thought the eyes might be noticed, and took the bull by the horns to disarm suspicion. He must have watched you out of the hotel, sir, and nipped in as soon as you were well away.’

‘What about the jewel-case?’ I asked.

‘It was found in the corridor of the hotel. Only one thing had been taken—“The Western Star”.’

We stared at each other—the whole thing was so bizarre, so unreal.

Poirot hopped briskly to his feet. ‘I have not been of much use, I fear,’ he said regretfully. ‘Is it permitted to see Madame?’

‘I guess she’s prostrated with the shock,’ explained Rolf.

‘Then perhaps I might have a few words alone with you, monsieur?’

‘Certainly.’

In about five minutes Poirot reappeared.

‘Now, my friend,’ he said gaily. ‘To a post office. I have to send a telegram.’

‘Who to?’

‘Lord Yardly.’ He discounted further inquiries by slipping his arm through mine. ‘Come, come, mon ami. I know all that you feel about this terrible business. I have not distinguished myself ! You, in my place, might have distinguished yourself. Bien! All is admitted. Let us forget it and have lunch.’

It was about four o’clock when we entered Poirot’s rooms. A figure rose from a chair by the window. It was Lord Yardly. He looked haggard and distraught.

‘I got your wire and came up at once. Look here, I’ve been round to Hoffberg, and they know nothing about that man of theirs last night, or the wire either. Do you think that—’

Poirot held up his hand.

‘My excuses! I sent that wire, and hired the gentleman in question.’

‘You—but why? What?’ The nobleman spluttered impotently.

‘My little idea was to bring things to a head,’ explained Poirot placidly.

‘Bring things to a head! Oh, my God!’ cried Lord Yardly.

‘And the ruse succeeded,’ said Poirot cheerfully. ‘Therefore, milord, I have much pleasure in returning you—this!’ With a dramatic gesture he produced a glittering object. It was a great diamond.

‘The Star of the East,’ gasped Lord Yardly. ‘But I don’t understand—’

‘No?’ said Poirot. ‘It makes no matter. Believe me, it was necessary for the diamond to be stolen. I promised you that it should be preserved to you, and I have kept my word. You must permit me to keep my little secret. Convey, I beg of you, the assurance of my deepest respect to Lady Yardly, and tell her how pleased I am to be able to restore her jewel to her. What beau temps, is it not? Good day, milord.’

And smiling and talking, the amazing little man conducted the bewildered nobleman to the door. He returned gently rubbing his hands.

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘Am I quite demented?’

‘No, mon ami, but you are, as always, in a mental fog.’

‘How did you get the diamond?’

‘From Mr Rolf.’

‘Rolf?’

‘Mais oui! The warning letters, the Chinaman, the article in Society Gossip, all sprang from the ingenious brain of Mr Rolf! The two diamonds, supposed to be so miraculously alike—bah! they did not exist. There was only one diamond, my friend! Originally in the Yardly collection, for three years it has been in the possession of Mr Rolf. He stole it this morning with the assistance of a touch of grease paint at the corner of each eye! Ah, I must see him on the film, he is indeed an artist, celui-là!’

‘But why should he steal his own diamond?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive.’

‘Lady Yardly?’

‘You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband was amusing himself elsewhere. Mr Rolf was handsome, he had an air about him of romance. But au fond, he is very business-like, ce monsieur! He made love to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed her. I taxed the lady with the truth the other night, and she admitted it. She swore that she had only been indiscreet, and I believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that could be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the threat of a divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her children, she agreed to all he wished. She had no money of her own, and she was forced to permit him to substitute a paste replica for the real stone. The coincidence of the date of the appearance of “The Western Star” struck me at once. All goes well. Lord Yardly prepares to range himself—to settle down. And then comes the menace of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory Rolf who has just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising to arrange all—and prepares for a double robbery. In this way he will quiet the lady, who might conceivably tell all to her husband, an affair which would not suit our blackmailer at all, he will have £50,000 insurance money (aha, you had forgotten that!), and he will still have the diamond! At this point I put my finger in the pie. The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery—and does it very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She has already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs—’

‘But we saw the necklace round her neck!’ I objected.

‘I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the door beforehand is child’s play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read of the robbery, he arranged his own little comedy. And very well he played it!’

‘What did you say to him?’ I asked with lively curiosity.

‘I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!’

I pondered the matter.

‘It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond through no fault of her own.’

‘Bah!’ said Poirot brutally. ‘She has a magnificent advertisement. That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is different. Bonne mère, très femme!’

‘Yes,’ I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on femininity. ‘I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate letters.’

‘Pas du tout,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘She came by the advice of Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and she changed her mind jumping at a pretext that you, my friend, offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that you told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your words offered.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ I cried, stung.

‘Si, si, mon ami, it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!’

‘It’s all very well,’ I said, my anger rising, ‘but you’ve made a perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well to try and explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!’

‘But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend, I had not the heart to shatter your illusions.’

‘It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.’

‘Mon Dieu! but how you enrage yourself for nothing, mon ami!’

‘I’m fed up!’ I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an absolute laughing-stock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself!

The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor

I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.

‘A la bonne heure, Hastings, I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me.’

‘You are called away on a case, then?’

‘Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds.’

‘Yes?’ I said, much interested.

‘There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his committing suicide within a year the premiums would be forfeited. Mr Maltravers was duly examined by the Company’s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However, on Wednesday last—the day before yesterday—the body of Mr Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of internal haemorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable, but sinister rumours as to Mr Maltravers’ financial position have been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentleman stood upon the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters matters considerably. Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and then committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him, I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local GP to discover what his patient really did die of, but a haemorrhage seems fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries. Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi to Liverpool Street.’

About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the little station of Marsdon Leigh. Inquiries at the station yielded the information that Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.

‘What is our plan of campaign?’ I asked.

‘First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr Ralph Bernard. Ah, here we are at his house.’

The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back a little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor’s name. We passed up the path and rang the bell.

We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor’s consulting hour, and for the moment there were no patients waiting for him. Dr Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner.

Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit, adding that Insurance Companies were bound to investigate fully in a case of this kind.

‘Of course, of course,’ said Dr Bernard vaguely. ‘I suppose, as he was such a rich man, his life was insured for a big sum?’

‘You consider him a rich man, doctor?’

The doctor looked rather surprised.

‘Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a pretty big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very cheap.’

‘I understand that he had had considerable losses of late,’ said Poirot, watching the doctor narrowly.

The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.

‘Is that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there is this life insurance. A very beautiful and charming young creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe. A mass of nerves, poor thing. I have tried to spare her all I can, but of course the shock was bound to be considerable.’

‘You had been attending Mr Maltravers recently?’

‘My dear sir, I never attended him.’

‘What?’

‘I understand Mr Maltravers was a Christian Scientist—or something of that kind.’

‘But you examined the body?’

‘Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners.’

‘And the cause of death was clear?’

‘Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must have been internal.’

‘Was he still lying where he had been found?’

‘Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay beside him. The haemorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt.’

‘No question of his having been shot, eh?’

‘My dear sir!’

‘I demand pardon,’ said Poirot humbly. ‘But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure—altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!’

‘You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr Maltravers,’ said Dr Bernard dryly. ‘Now gentlemen, if there is nothing further—’

We took the hint.

‘Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly answering our questions. By the way, you saw no need for an autopsy?’

‘Certainly not.’ The doctor became quite apoplectic. ‘The cause of death was clear, and in my profession we see no need to distress unduly the relatives of a dead patient.’

And, turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces.

‘And what do you think of Dr Bernard, Hastings?’ inquired Poirot, as we proceeded on our way to the Manor.

‘Rather an old ass.’

‘Exactly. Your judgements of character are always profound, my friend.’

I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A twinkle, however, came into his eye, and he added slyly:

‘That is to say, where there is no question of a beautiful woman!’

I looked at him coldly.

On our arrival at the manor house, the door was opened to us by a middle-aged parlourmaid. Poirot handed her his card, and a letter from the Insurance Company for Mrs Maltravers. She showed us into a small morning room, and retired to tell her mistress. About ten minutes elapsed, and then the door opened, and a slender figure in widow’s weeds stood upon the threshold.

‘Monsieur Poirot?’ she faltered.

‘Madame!’ Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards her. ‘I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way. But what will you? Les affaires—they know no mercy.’

Mrs Maltravers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were red with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or eight, and very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth.

‘It is something about my husband’s insurance, is it? But must I be bothered now—so soon?’

‘Courage, my dear madame. Courage! You see, your late husband insured his life for rather a large sum, and in such a case the Company always has to satisfy itself as to a few details. They have empowered me to act for them. You can rest assured that I will do all in my power to render the matter not too unpleasant for you. Will you recount to me briefly the sad events of Wednesday?’

‘I was changing for tea when my maid came up—one of the gardeners had just run to the house. He had found—’

Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically.

‘I comprehend. Enough! You had seen your husband earlier in the afternoon?’

‘Not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps, and I believe he was out pottering round the grounds.’

‘Shooting rooks, eh?’

‘Yes, he usually took his little rook rifle with him, and I heard one or two shots in the distance.’

‘Where is this little rook rifle now?’

‘In the hall, I think.’

She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to Poirot, who examined it cursorily.

‘Two shots fired, I see,’ he observed, as he handed it back. ‘And now, madame, if I might see—’

He paused delicately.

‘The servant shall take you,’ she murmured, averting her head.

The parlourmaid, summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with the lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to speak or remain silent. I essayed one or two general reflections to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us.

‘I thank you for all your courtesy, madame. I do not think you need be troubled any further with this matter. By the way, do you know anything of your husband’s financial position?’

She shook her head.

‘Nothing whatever. I am very stupid over business things.’

‘I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to insure his life? He had not done so previously, I understand.’

‘Well, we had only been married a little over a year. But, as to why he insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up his mind that he would not live long. He had a strong premonition of his own death. I gather that he had had one haemorrhage already, and that he knew that another one would prove fatal. I tried to dispel these gloomy fears of his, but without avail. Alas, he was only too right!’

Tears in her eyes, she bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made a characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together.

‘Eh bien, that is that! Back to London, my friend, there appears to be no mouse in this mouse-hole. And yet—’

‘Yet what?’

‘A slight discrepancy, that is all! You noticed it? You did not? Still, life is full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his life—there is no poison that would fill his mouth with blood. No, no, I must resign myself to the fact that all here is clear and above board—but who is this?’

A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking, with a lean, deeply-bronzed face that spoke of life in a tropic clime. A gardener who was sweeping up leaves had paused for a minute in his task, and Poirot ran quickly up to him.

‘Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know him?’

‘I don’t remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was staying down here last week for a night. Tuesday, it was.’

‘Quick, mon ami, let us follow him.’

We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. A glimpse of a black-robed figure on the terrace at the side of the house, and our quarry swerved and we after him, so that we were witnesses of the meeting.

Mrs Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face blanched noticeably.

‘You,’ she gasped. ‘I thought you were on the sea—on your way to East Africa?’

‘I got some news from my lawyers that detained me,’ explained the young man. ‘My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel my passage. Then I saw this bad news in the paper and I came down to see if there was anything I could do. You’ll want someone to look after things for you a bit perhaps.’

At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped forward, and with many apologies explained that he had left his stick in the hall. Rather reluctantly, it seemed to me, Mrs Maltravers made the necessary introduction.

‘Monsieur Poirot, Captain Black.’

A few minutes’ chat ensued, in the course of which Poirot elicited the fact that Captain Black was putting up at the Anchor Inn. The missing stick not having been discovered (which was not surprising), Poirot uttered more apologies and we withdrew.

We returned to the village at a great pace, and Poirot made a beeline for the Anchor Inn.

‘Here we establish ourselves until our friend the Captain returns,’ he explained. ‘You noticed that I emphasized the point that we were returning to London by the first train? Possibly you thought I meant it. But no—you observed Mrs Maltravers’ face when she caught sight of this young Black? She was clearly taken aback, and he—eh bien, he was very devoted, did you not think so? And he was here on Tuesday night—the day before Mr Maltravers died. We must investigate the doings of Captain Black, Hastings.’

In about half an hour we espied our quarry approaching the inn. Poirot went out and accosted him and presently brought him up to the room we had engaged.

‘I have been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us here,’ he explained. ‘You can understand, monsieur le capitaine, that I am anxious to arrive at Mr Maltravers’ state of mind immediately before his death, and that at the same time I do not wish to distress Mrs Maltravers unduly by asking her painful questions. Now, you were here just before the occurrence, and can give us equally valuable information.’

‘I’ll do anything I can to help you, I’m sure,’ replied the young soldier; ‘but I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. You see, although Maltravers was an old friend of my people’s, I didn’t know him very well myself.’

‘You came down—when?’

‘Tuesday afternoon. I went up to town early Wednesday morning, as my boat sailed from Tilbury about twelve o’clock. But some news I got made me alter my plans, as I dare say you heard me explain to Mrs Maltravers.’

‘You were returning to East Africa, I understand?’

‘Yes. I’ve been out there ever since the War—a great country.’

‘Exactly. Now what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. The usual odd topics. Maltravers asked after my people, and then we discussed the question of German reparations, and then Mr Maltravers asked a lot of questions about East Africa, and I told them one or two yarns, that’s about all, I think.’

‘Thank you.’

Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said gently: ‘With your permission, I should like to try a little experiment. You have told us all that your conscious self knows, I want now to question your subconscious self.’

‘Psychoanalysis, what?’ said Black, with visible alarm.

‘Oh, no,’ said Poirot reassuringly. ‘You see, it is like this, I give you a word, you answer with another, and so on. Any word, the first you think of. Shall we begin?’

‘All right,’ said Black slowly, but he looked uneasy.

‘Note down the words, please, Hastings,’ said Poirot. Then he took from his pocket his big turnip-faced watch and laid it on the table beside him. ‘We will commence. Day.’

There was a moment’s pause, and then Black replied:

‘Night.’

As Poirot proceeded, his answers came quicker.

‘Name,’ said Poirot.

‘Place.’

‘Bernard.’

‘Shaw.’

‘Tuesday.’

‘Dinner.’

‘Journey.’

‘Ship.’

‘Country.’

‘Uganda.’

‘Story.’

‘Lions.’

‘Rook Rifle.’

‘Farm.’

‘Shot.’

‘Suicide.’

‘Elephant.’

‘Tusks.’

‘Money.’

‘Lawyers.’

‘Thank you, Captain Black. Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes in about half an hour’s time?’

‘Certainly.’ The young soldier looked at him curiously and wiped his brow as he got up.

‘And now, Hastings,’ said Poirot, smiling at me as the door closed behind him. ‘You see it all, do you not?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Does that list of words tell you nothing?’

I scrutinized it, but was forced to shake my head.

‘I will assist you. To begin with, Black answered well within the normal time limit, with no pauses, so we can take it that he himself has no guilty knowledge to conceal. “Day” to “Night” and “Place” to “Name” are normal associations. I began work with “Bernard,” which might have suggested the local doctor had he come across him at all. Evidently he had not. After our recent conversation, he gave “Dinner” to my “Tuesday”, but “Journey” and “Country” were answered by “Ship” and “Uganda”, showing clearly that it was his journey abroad that was important to him and not the one which brought him down here. “Story” recalls to him one of the “Lion” stories he told at dinner. I proceeded to “Rook Rifle” and he answered with the totally unexpected word “Farm”. When I say “Shot”, he answers at once “Suicide”. The association seems clear. A man he knows committed suicide with a rook rifle on a farm somewhere. Remember, too, that his mind is still on the stories he told at dinner, and I think you will agree that I shall not be far from the truth if I recall Captain Black and ask him to repeat the particular suicide story which he told at the dinner-table on Tuesday evening.’

Black was straightforward enough over the matter.

‘Yes, I did tell them that story now that I come to think of it. Chap shot himself on a farm out there. Did it with a rook rifle through the roof of the mouth, bullet lodged in the brain. Doctors were no end puzzled over it—there was nothing to show except a little blood on the lips. But what—?’

‘What has it got to do with Mr Maltravers? You did not know, I see, that he was found with a rook rifle by his side.’

‘You mean my story suggested to him—oh, but that is awful!’

‘Do not distress yourself—it would have been one way or another. Well, I must get on the telephone to London.’

Poirot had a lengthy conversation over the wire, and came back thoughtful. He went off by himself in the afternoon, and it was not till seven o’clock that he announced that he could put it off no longer, but must break the news to the young widow. My sympathy had already gone out to her unreservedly. To be left penniless, and with the knowledge that her husband had killed himself to assure her future, was a hard burden for any woman to bear. I cherished a secret hope, however, that young Black might prove capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. He evidently admired her enormously.

Our interview with the lady was painful. She refused vehemently to believe the facts that Poirot advanced, and when she was at last convinced broke down into bitter weeping. An examination of the body turned our suspicions into certainty. Poirot was very sorry for the poor lady, but, after all, he was employed by the Insurance Company, and what could he do? As he was preparing to leave he said gently to Mrs Maltravers:

‘Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead!’

‘What do you mean?’ she faltered, her eyes growing wide.

‘Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances? You are mediumistic, you know.’

‘I have been told so. But you do not believe in Spiritualism, surely?’

‘Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say in the village that this house is haunted?’

She nodded, and at that moment the parlourmaid announced that dinner was ready.

‘Won’t you just stay and have something to eat?’

We accepted gratefully, and I felt that our presence could not but help distract her a little from her own griefs.

We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the door, and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlourmaid appeared, her hand to her heart.

‘It was a man—standing in the passage.’

Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.

‘There is no one there.’

‘Isn’t there, sir?’ said the parlourmaid weakly. ‘Oh it did give me a start!’

‘But why?’

She dropped her voice to a whisper.

‘I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like ‘im.’

I saw Mrs Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I am sure, for a minute later, she caught Poirot’s arm with a scream.

‘Didn’t you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That’s how he always used to tap when he passed round the house.’

‘The ivy,’ I cried. ‘It was the ivy against the pane.’

But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs Maltravers besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little morning room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door slowly opened, and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp.

‘Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!’ cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it once more, then turned the key in the lock. ‘I shall lock it, so!’

‘Don’t do that,’ she gasped. ‘If it should come open now—’

And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek as she turned to him.

‘You saw him—there in the passage?’ she cried.

He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head.

‘I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?’

‘Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung—’

‘I am perfectly well, I—Oh, God!’

Suddenly, without warning, the lights quivered and went out. Out of the darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs Maltravers moaning.

And then—I saw!

The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming with a faint ghostly light. There was blood on his lips, and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant light seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me, and fell on Mrs Maltravers. I saw her white terrified face, and something else!

‘My God, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘Look at her hand, her right hand. It’s all red!’

Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

‘Blood,’ she cried hysterically. ‘Yes, it’s blood. I killed him. I did it. He was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me from him—save me! He’s come back!’

Her voice died away in a gurgle.

‘Lights,’ said Poirot briskly.

The lights went on as if by magic.

‘That’s it,’ he continued. ‘You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett? Oh, by the way, this is Mr Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical profession. I phoned to him this afternoon. His make-up is good, isn’t it? Quite like the dead man, and with a pocket torch and the necessary phosphorescence he made the proper impression. I shouldn’t touch her right hand if I were you, Hastings. Red paint marks so. When the lights went out I clasped her hand, you see. By the way, we mustn’t miss our train. Inspector Japp is outside the window. A bad night—but he has been able to while away the time by tapping on the window every now and then.’

‘You see,’ continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, ‘there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and who could have given him that impression but Mrs Maltravers? But to us she represented him as being in a great state of apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young Black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!

‘Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered.

‘No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was the case of murder, not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight.’

‘Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime?’ I said.

‘Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husband’s financial débâcle and tired of the elderly mate she had only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her that—the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. “What a curious story that was last night!” she observes. “Could a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is possible!” The poor fool—he shows her. He places the end of his rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. “And now, sir,” she says saucily, “supposing I pull the trigger?”

‘And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!’

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