The Under Dog And Other Stories Part 22

Poirot stared hard at her.

"Let me understand you, madame. They are to be placed in my hand-is that right? And I am to return them to Lord Alloway on the condition that he asks no questions as to where I got them?"

She bowed her head. "That is what I mean. But I must be sure there will be no-publicity."

"I do not think Lord Alloway is particularly anxious for publicity," said Poirot grimly.

"You accept then?" she cried eagerly in response.

"A little moment, milady. It depends on how soon you can place those papers in my hands."

"Almost immediately."

Poirot glanced up at the clock.

"How soon, exactly?"

"Say-ten minutes," she whispered.

"I accept, milady."

She hurried from the room. I pursed my mouth up for a whistle.

"Can you sum up the situation for me, Hastings?"

"Bridge," I replied succinctly.

"Ah, you remember the careless words of Monsieur the Admiral! What a memory! I felicitate you, Hastings."

We said no more, for Lord Alloway came in, and looked inquiringly at Poirot.

"Have you any further ideas, M. Poirot? I am afraid the answers to your questions have been rather disappointing."

"Not at all, milor'. They have been quite sufficiently illuminating. It will be unnecessary for me to stay here any longer, and so, with your permission, I will return at once to London."

Lord Alloway seemed dumbfounded.

"But-but what have you discovered? Do you know who took the plans?"

"Yes, milor', I do. Tell me-in the case of the papers being returned to you anonymously, you would prosecute no further inquiry?"

Lord Alloway stared at him.

"Do you mean on payment of a sum of money?"

"No, milor', returned unconditionally."

"Of course, the recovery of the plans is the great thing," said Lord Alloway slowly. He looked puzzled and uncomprehending.

"Then I should seriously recommend you to adopt that course. Only you, the Admiral, and your secretary know of the loss. Only they need know of the rest.i.tution. And you may count on me to support you in every way-lay the mystery on my shoulders. You asked me to restore the papers-I have done so. You know no more." He rose and held out his hand. "Milor', I am glad to have met you. I have faith in you-and your devotion to England. You will guide her destinies with a strong, sure hand."

"M. Poirot-I swear to you that I will do my best. It may be a fault, or it may be a virtue-but I believe in myself."

"So does every great man. Me, I am the same!" said Poirot grandiloquently.

III.

The car came round to the door in a few minutes, and Lord Alloway bade us farewell on the steps with renewed cordiality.

"That is a great man, Hastings," said Poirot as we drove off. "He has brains, resource, power. He is the strong man that England needs to guide her through these difficult days of reconstruction."

"I'm quite ready to agree with all you say, Poirot-but what about Lady Juliet? Is she to return the papers straight to Alloway? What will she think when she finds you have gone off without a word?"

"Hastings, I will ask you a little question. Why, when she was talking with me, did she not hand me the plans then and there?"

"She hadn't got them with her."

"Perfectly. How long would it take her to fetch them from her room? Or from any hiding place in the house? You need not answer. I will tell you. Probably about two minutes and a half! Yet she asks for ten minutes. Why? Clearly she has to obtain them from some other person, and to reason or argue with that person before they give them up. Now, what person could that be? Not Mrs. Conrad, clearly, but a member of her own family, her husband or son. Which is it likely to be? Leonard Weardale said he went straight to bed. We know that to be untrue. Supposing his mother went to his room and found it empty; supposing she came down filled with a nameless dread-he is no beauty that son of hers! She does not find him, but later she hears him deny that he ever left his room. She leaps to the conclusion that he is the thief. Hence her interview with me.

"But, mon ami, we know something that Lady Juliet does not. We know that her son could not have been in the study, because he was on the stairs, making love to the pretty French maid. Although she does not know it, Leonard Weardale has an alibi."

"Well, then, who did steal the papers? We seem to have eliminated everybody-Lady Juliet, her son, Mrs. Conrad, the French maid-"

"Exactly. Use your little grey cells, my friend. The solution stares you in the face."

I shook my head blankly.

"But yes! If you would only persevere! See, then, Fitzroy goes out of the study; he leaves the papers on the desk. A few minutes later Lord Alloway enters the room, goes to the desk, and the papers are gone. Only two things are possible: either Fitzroy did not leave the papers on the desk, but put them in his pocket-and that is not reasonable, because, as Alloway pointed out, he could have taken a tracing at his own convenience any time-or else the papers were still on the desk when Lord Alloway went to it-in which case they went into his pocket."

"Lord Alloway the thief," I said, dumbfounded. "But why? Why?"

"Did you not tell me of some scandal in the past? He was exonerated, you said. But suppose, after all, it had been true? In English public life there must be no scandal. If this were raked up and proved against him now-good-bye to his political career. We will suppose that he was being blackmailed, and the price asked was the submarine plans."

"But the man's a black traitor!" I cried.

"Oh no, he is not. He is clever and resourceful. Supposing, my friend, that he copied those plans, making-for he is a clever engineer-a slight alteration in each part which will render them quite impractible. He hands the faked plans to the enemy's agent-Mrs. Conrad, I fancy; but in order that no suspicion of their genuineness may arise, the plans must seem to be stolen. He does his best to throw no suspicion on anyone in the house, by pretending to see a man leaving the window. But there he ran up against the obstinacy of the Admiral. So his next anxiety is that no suspicion shall fall on Fitzroy."

"This is all guesswork on your part, Poirot," I objected.

"It is psychology, mon ami. A man who had handed over the real plans would not be overscrupulous as to who was likely to fall under suspicion. And why was he so anxious that no details of the robbery should be given to Mrs. Conrad? Because he had handed over the faked plans earlier in the evening, and did not want her to know that the theft could only have taken place later."

"I wonder if you are right," I said.

"Of course I am right. I spoke to Alloway as one great man to another-and he understood perfectly. You will see."

IV.

One thing is quite certain. On the day when Lord Alloway became Prime Minister, a cheque and a signed photograph arrived; on the photograph were the words: "To my discreet friend, Hercule Poirot-from Alloway."

I believe that the Z type of submarine is causing great exultation in naval circles. They say it will revolutionize modern naval warfare. I have heard that a certain foreign power essayed to construct something of the same kind and the result was a dismal failure. But I still consider that Poirot was guessing. He will do it once too often one of these days.

Nine.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE CLAPHAM COOK.

I.

At the time that I was sharing rooms with my friend Hercule Poirot, it was my custom to read aloud to him the headlines in the morning newspaper, the Daily Blare.

The Daily Blare was a paper that made the most of any opportunity for sensationalism. Robberies and murders did not lurk obscurely in its back pages. Instead they hit you in the eye in large type on the front page.

ABSCONDING BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS WITH FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS' WORTH OF NEGOTIABLE SECURITIES, I read.

HUSBAND PUTS HIS HEAD IN GAS-OVEN. UNHAPPY HOME LIFE. MISSING TYPIST. PRETTY GIRL OF TWENTY-ONE. WHERE IS EDNA FIELD?.

"There you are, Poirot, plenty to choose from. An absconding bank clerk, a mysterious suicide, a missing typist-which will you have?"

My friend was in a placid mood. He quietly shook his head.

"I am not greatly attracted to any of them, mon ami. Today I feel inclined for the life of ease. It would have to be a very interesting problem to tempt me from my chair. See you, I have affairs of importance of my own to attend to."

"Such as?"

"My wardrobe, Hastings. If I mistake not, there is on my new grey suit the spot of grease-only the unique spot, but it is sufficient to trouble me. Then there is my winter overcoat-I must lay him aside in the powder of Keatings. And I think-yes, I think-the moment is ripe for the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of my moustaches-and afterwards I must apply the pomade."

"Well," I said, strolling to the window, "I doubt if you'll be able to carry out this delirious programme. That was a ring at the bell. You have a client."

"Unless the affair is one of national importance, I touch it not," declared Poirot with dignity.

A moment later our privacy was invaded by a stout red-faced lady who panted audibly as a result of her rapid ascent of the stairs.

"You're M. Poirot?" she demanded, as she sank into a chair.

"I am Hercule Poirot, yes, madame."

"You're not a bit like what I thought you'd be," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. "Did you pay for the bit in the paper saying what a clever detective you were, or did they put it in themselves?"

"Madame!" said Poirot, drawing himself up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sure, but you know what these papers are nowadays. You begin reading a nice article: 'What a bride said to her plain unmarried friend,' and it's all about a simple thing you buy at the chemist's and shampoo your hair with. Nothing but puff. But no offence taken, I hope? I'll tell you what I want you to do for me. I want you to find my cook."

Poirot stared at her; for once his ready tongue failed him. I turned aside to hide the broadening smile I could not control.

"It's all this wicked dole," continued the lady. "Putting ideas into servants' heads, wanting to be typists and what nots. Stop the dole, that's what I say. I'd like to know what my servants have to complain of-afternoon and evening off a week, alternate Sundays, washing put out, same food as we have-and never a bit of margarine in the house, nothing but the very best b.u.t.ter."

She paused for want of breath and Poirot seized his opportunity. He spoke in his haughtiest manner, rising to his feet as he did so.

"I fear you are making a mistake, madame. I am not holding an inquiry into the conditions of domestic service. I am a private detective."

"I know that," said our visitor. "Didn't I tell you I wanted you to find my cook for me? Walked out of the house on Wednesday, without so much as a word to me, and never came back."

"I am sorry, madame, but I do not touch this particular kind of business. I wish you good morning."

Our visitor snorted with indignation.

"That's it, is it, my fine fellow? Too proud, eh? Only deal with Government secrets and countesses' jewels? Let me tell you a servant's every bit as important as a tiara to a woman in my position. We can't all be fine ladies going out in our motors with our diamonds and our pearls. A good cook's a good cook-and when you lose her, it's as much to you as her pearls are to some fine lady."

For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot's dignity and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.

"Madame, you are in the right, and I am in the wrong. Your remarks are just and intelligent. This case will be a novelty. Never yet have I hunted a missing domestic. Truly here is the problem of national importance that I was demanding of fate just before your arrival. En avant! You say this jewel of a cook went out on Wednesday and did not return. That is the day before yesterday."

"Yes, it was her day out."

"But probably, madame, she has met with some accident. Have you inquired at any of the hospitals?"

"That's exactly what I thought yesterday, but this morning, if you please, she sent for her box. And not so much as a line to me! If I'd been at home, I'd not have let it go-treating me like that! But I'd just stepped out to the butcher."

"Will you describe her to me?"

"She was middle-aged, stout, black hair turning grey-most respectable. She'd been ten years in her last place. Eliza Dunn, her name was."

"And you had had-no disagreement with her on the Wednesday?"

"None whatsoever. That's what makes it all so queer."

"How many servants do you keep, madame?"

"Two. The house-parlourmaid, Annie, is a very nice girl. A bit forgetful and her head full of young men, but a good servant if you keep her up to her work."

"Did she and the cook get on well together?"

"They had their ups and downs, of course-but on the whole, very well."

"And the girl can throw no light on the mystery?"

"She says not-but you know what servants are-they all hang together."

"Well, well, we must look into this. Where did you say you resided, madame?"

"At Clapham; 88 Prince Albert Road."

"Bien, madame, I will wish you good morning, and you may count upon seeing me at your residence during the course of the day."