Poirot Investigates Read online

  “Only I did not drink it!” said a placid voice.

  We turned in amazement. Poirot was sitting up on the bed. He was smiling.

  “No,” he said gently. “I did not drink it. While my good friend Hastings was apostrophizing the night, I took the opportunity of pouring it, not down my throat, but into a little bottle. That little bottle will go to the analytical chemist. No”—as the doctor made a sudden movement—“as a sensible man, you will understand that violence will be of no avail. During Hastings’ absence to fetch you, I have had time to put the bottle in safe keeping. Ah, quick, Hastings, hold him!”

  I misunderstood Poirot’s anxiety. Eager to save my friend, I flung myself in front of him. But the doctor’s swift movement had another meaning. His hand went to his mouth, a smell of bitter almonds filled the air, and he swayed forward and fell.

  “Another victim,” said Poirot gravely, “but the last. Perhaps it is the best way. He has three deaths on his head.”

  “Dr. Ames?” I cried, stupefied. “But I thought you believed in some occult influence?”

  “You misunderstood me, Hastings. What I meant was that I believe in the terrific force of superstition. Once get it firmly established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is the instinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race. I suspected from the first that a man was taking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine, with the death of Sir John Willard. A fury of superstition arose at once. As far as I could see, nobody could derive any particular profit from Sir John’s death. Mr. Bleibner was a different case. He was a man of great wealth. The information I received from New York contained several suggestive points. To begin with, young Bleibner was reported to have said he had a good friend in Egypt from whom he could borrow. It was tacitly understood that he meant his uncle, but it seemed to me that in that case he would have said so outright. The words suggest some boon companion of his own. Another thing, he scraped up enough money to take him to Egypt, his uncle refused outright to advance him a penny, yet he was able to pay the return passage to New York. Someone must have lent him the money.”

  “All that was very thin,” I objected.

  “But there was more. Hastings, there occur often enough words spoken metaphorically which are taken literally. The opposite can happen too. In this case, words which were meant literally were taken metaphorically. Young Bleibner wrote plainly enough: ‘I am a leper,’ but nobody realized that he shot himself because he believed that he contracted the dread disease of leprosy.”

  “What?” I ejaculated.

  “It was the clever invention of a diabolical mind. Young Bleibner was suffering from some minor skin trouble; he had lived in the South Sea Islands, where the disease is common enough. Ames was a former friend of his, and a well-known medical man, he would never dream of doubting his word. When I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Harper and Dr. Ames, but I soon realized that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the crimes, and I learn from Harper that he was previously acquainted with young Bleibner. Doubtless the latter at some time or another had made a will or had insured his life in favour of the doctor. The latter saw his chance of acquiring wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate Mr. Bleibner with the deadly germs. Then the nephew, overcome with despair at the dread news his friend had conveyed to him, shot himself. Mr. Bleibner, whatever his intentions, had made no will. His fortune would pass to his nephew and from him to the doctor.”

  “And Mr. Schneider?”

  “We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may have suspected something, or, again, the doctor may have thought that a further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychological fact, Hastings. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime, the performance of it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw tonight was Hassan dressed up by my orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take more than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he was not entirely taken in by my pretences of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavour to make me the next victim. Ah, but in spite of la mer maudite, the heat abominable, and the annoyances of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned!”

  Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner, some years ago, in a fit of drunken merriment, had made a jocular will, leaving “my cigarette case you admire so much and everything else of which I die possessed which will be principally debts to my good friend Robert Ames who once saved my life from drowning.”

  The case was hushed up as far as possible, and, to this day, people talk of the remarkable series of deaths in connection with the Tomb of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone king upon the desecrators of his tomb—a belief which, as Poirot pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.

  Seven

  THE JEWEL ROBBERY AT THE

  GRAND METROPOLITAN

  “Poirot,” I said, “a change of air would do you good.”

  “You think so, mon ami?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Eh—eh?” said my friend, smiling. “It is all arranged, then?”

  “You will come?”

  “Where do you propose to take me?”

  “Brighton. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine in the City put me on to a very good thing, and—well, I have money to burn, as the saying goes. I think a weekend at the Grand Metropolitan would do us all the good in the world.”

  “Thank you, I accept most gratefully. You have the good heart to think of an old man. And the good heart, it is in the end worth all the little grey cells. Yes, yes, I who speak to you am in danger of forgetting that sometimes.”

  I did not relish the implication. I fancy that Poirot is sometimes a little inclined to underestimate my mental capacities. But his pleasure was so evident that I put my slight annoyance aside.

  “Then, that’s all right,” I said hastily.

  Saturday evening saw us dining at the Grand Metropolitan in the midst of a gay throng. All the world and his wife seemed to be at Brighton. The dresses were marvellous, and the jewels—worn sometimes with more love of display than good taste—were something magnificent.

  “Hein, it is a good sight, this!” murmured Poirot. “This is the home of the Profiteer, is it not so, Hastings?”

  “Supposed to be,” I replied. “But we’ll hope they aren’t all tarred with the Profiteering brush.”

  Poirot gazed round him placidly.

  “The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains to crime, instead of to its detection. What a magnificent opportunity for some thief of distinction! Regard, Hastings, that stout woman by the pillar. She is, as you would say, plastered with gems.”

  I followed his eyes.

  “Why,” I exclaimed, “it’s Mrs. Opalsen.”

  “You know her?”

  “Slightly. Her husband is a rich stockbroker who made a fortune in the recent oil boom.”

  After dinner we ran across the Opalsens in the lounge, and I introduced Poirot to them. We chatted for a few minutes, and ended by having our coffee together.

  Poirot said a few words in praise of some of the costlier gems displayed on the lady’s ample bosom, and she brightened up at once.

  “It’s a perfect hobby of mine, Mr. Poirot. I just love jewellery. Ed knows my weakness, and every time things go well he brings me something new. You are interested in precious stones?”

  “I have had a good deal to do with them one time and another, madame. My profession has brought me into contact with some of the most famous jewels in the world.”

  He went on to narrate, with discreet pseudonyms, the story of the historic jewels of a reign
ing house, and Mrs. Opalsen listened with bated breath.

  “There now,” she exclaimed, as he ended. “If it isn’t just like a play! You know, I’ve got some pearls of my own that have a history attached to them. I believe it’s supposed to be one of the finest necklaces in the world—the pearls are so beautifully matched and so perfect in colour. I declare I really must run up and get it!”

  “Oh, madame,” protested Poirot, “you are too amiable. Pray do not derange yourself!”

  “Oh, but I’d like to show it to you.”

  The buxom dame waddled across to the lift briskly enough. Her husband, who had been talking to me, looked at Poirot inquiringly.

  “Madame your wife is so amiable as to insist on showing me her pearl necklace,” explained the latter.

  “Oh, the pearls!” Opalsen smiled in a satisfied fashion. “Well, they are worth seeing. Cost a pretty penny too! Still, the money’s there all right; I could get what I paid for them any day—perhaps more. May have to, too, if things go on as they are now. Money’s confoundedly tight in the City. All this infernal EPD.” He rambled on, launching into technicalities where I could not follow him.

  He was interrupted by a small page boy who approached him and murmured something in his ear.

  “Eh—what? I’ll come at once. Not taken ill, is she? Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  He left us abruptly. Poirot leaned back and lit one of his tiny Russian cigarettes. Then, carefully and meticulously, he arranged the empty coffee cups in a neat row, and beamed happily on the result.

  The minutes passed. The Opalsens did not return.

  “Curious,” I remarked, at length. “I wonder when they will come back.”

  Poirot watched the ascending spirals of smoke, and then said thoughtfully:

  “They will not come back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, my friend, something has happened.”

  “What sort of thing? How do you know?” I asked curiously.

  Poirot smiled.

  “A few minutes ago the manager came hurriedly out of his office and ran upstairs. He was much agitated. The liftboy is deep in talk with one of the pages. The lift-bell has rung three times, but he heeds it not. Thirdly, even the waiters are distrait; and to make a waiter distrait—” Poirot shook his head with an air of finality. “The affair must indeed be of the first magnitude. Ah, it is as I thought! Here come the police.”

  Two men had just entered the hotel—one in uniform, the other in plain clothes. They spoke to a page, and were immediately ushered upstairs. A few minutes later, the same boy descended and came up to where we were sitting.

  “Mr. Opalsen’s compliments, and would you step upstairs?”

  Poirot sprang nimbly to his feet. One would have said that he awaited the summons. I followed with no less alacrity.

  The Opalsens’ apartments were situated on the first floor. After knocking on the door, the page boy retired, and we answered the summons. “Come in!” A strange scene met our eyes. The room was Mrs. Opalsen’s bedroom, and in the centre of it, lying back in an armchair, was the lady herself, weeping violently. She presented an extraordinary spectacle, with the tears making great furrows in the powder with which her complexion was liberally coated. Mr. Opalsen was striding up and down angrily. The two police officials stood in the middle of the room, one with a notebook in hand. An hotel chambermaid, looking frightened to death, stood by the fireplace; and on the other side of the room a Frenchwoman, obviously Mrs. Opalsen’s maid, was weeping and wringing her hands, with an intensity of grief that rivalled that of her mistress.

  Into this pandemonium stepped Poirot, neat and smiling. Immediately, with an energy surprising in one of her bulk Mrs. Opalsen sprang from her chair towards him.

  “There now; Ed may say what he likes, but I believe in luck, I do. It was fated I should meet you the way I did this evening, and I’ve a feeling that if you can’t get my pearls back for me nobody can.”

  “Calm yourself, I pray of you, madame.” Poirot patted her hand soothingly. “Reassure yourself. All will be well. Hercule Poirot will aid you!”

  Mr. Opalsen turned to the police inspector.

  “There will be no objection to my—er—calling in this gentleman, I suppose?”

  “None at all, sir,” replied the man civilly, but with complete indifference. “Perhaps now your lady’s feeling better she’ll just let us have the facts?”

  Mrs. Opalsen looked helplessly at Poirot. He led her back to her chair.

  “Seat yourself, madame, and recount to us the whole history without agitating yourself.”

  Thus abjured, Mrs. Opalsen dried her eyes gingerly, and

  began.

  “I came upstairs after dinner to fetch my pearls for Mr. Poirot here to see. The chambermaid and Célestine were both in the room as usual—”

  “Excuse me, madame, but what do you mean by ‘as usual?’ ”

  Mr. Opalsen explained.

  “I make it a rule that no one is to come into this room unless Célestine, the maid, is there also. The chambermaid does the room in the morning while Célestine is present, and comes in after dinner to turn down the beds under the same conditions; otherwise she never enters the room.”

  “Well, as I was saying,” continued Mrs. Opalsen, “I came up. I went to the drawer here”—she indicated the bottom right-hand drawer of the kneehole dressing table—“took out my jewel case and unlocked it. It seemed quite as usual—but the pearls were not there!”

  The inspector had been busy with his notebook. When had you last seen them?” he asked.

  “They were there when I went down to dinner.”

  “You are sure?”

  “Quite sure. I was uncertain whether to wear them or not, but in the end I decided on the emeralds, and put them back in the jewel case.”

  “Who locked up the jewel case?”

  “I did. I wear the key on a chain round my neck.” She held it up as she spoke.

  The inspector examined it, and shrugged his shoulders.

  “The thief must have had a duplicate key. No difficult matter. The lock is quite a simple one. What did you do after you’d locked the jewel case?”

  “I put it back in the bottom drawer where I always keep it.”

  “You didn’t lock the drawer?”

  “No, I never do. My maid remains in the room till I come up, so there’s no need.”

  The inspector’s face grew greyer.

  “Am I to understand that the jewels were there when you went down to dinner, and that since then the maid has not left the room?”

  Suddenly, as though the horror of her own situation for the first time burst upon her, Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and, flinging herself upon Poirot, poured out a torrent of incoherent French.

  The suggestion was infamous! That she should be suspected of robbing Madame! The police were well known to be of a stupidity incredible! But Monsieur, who was a Frenchman—”

  “A Belgian,” interjected Poirot, but Célestine paid no attention to the correction.

  Monsieur would not stand by and see her falsely accused, while that infamous chambermaid was allowed to go scot-free. She had never liked her—a bold, red-faced thing—a born thief. She had said from the first that she was not honest. And had kept a sharp watch over her too, when she was doing Madame’s room! Let those idiots of policemen search her, and if they did not find Madame’s pearls on her it would be very surprising!

  Although this harangue was uttered in rapid and virulent French, Célestine had interlarded it with a wealth of gesture, and the chambermaid realized at least a part of her meaning. She reddened angrily.

  “If that foreign woman’s saying I took the pearls, it’s a lie!” she declared heatedly. “I never so much as saw them.”

  “Search her!” screamed the other. “You will find it is as

  I say.”

  “You’re a lair—do you hear?” said the chambermaid, advancing upon her. “Stole ’em yourself, and wan
t to put it on me. Why, I was only in the room about three minutes before the lady came up, and then you were sitting here the whole time, as you always do, like a cat watching a mouse.”

  The inspector looked across inquiringly at Célestine. “Is that true? Didn’t you leave the room at all?”

  “I did not actually leave her alone,” admitted Célestine reluctantly, “but I went into my own room through the door here twice—once to fetch a reel of cotton, and once for my scissors. She must have done it then.”

  “You wasn’t gone a minute,” retorted the chambermaid angrily. “Just popped out and in again. I’d be glad if the police would search me. I’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

  At this moment there was a tap at the door. The inspector went to it. His face brightened when he saw who it was.

  “Ah!” he said. “That’s rather fortunate. I sent for one of our female searchers, and she’s just arrived. Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind going into the room next door.”

  He looked at the chambermaid, who stepped across the threshold with a toss of her head, the searcher following her closely.

  The French girl had sunk sobbing into a chair. Poirot was looking round the room, the main features of which I have made clear by a sketch.

  “Where does that door lead?” he inquired, nodding his head towards the one by the window.

  “Into the next apartment, I believe,” said the inspector. “It’s bolted, anyway, on this side.”

  Poirot walked across to it, tried it, then drew back the bolt and tried it again.

  “And on the other side as well,” he remarked. “Well, that seems to rule out that.”

  He walked over to the windows, examining each of them in turn.

  “And again—nothing. Not even a balcony outside.”

  “Even if there were,” said the inspector impatiently, “I don’t see how that would help us, if the maid never left the room.”

  “Évidemment,” said Poirot, not disconcerted. “As Mademoiselle is positive she did not leave the room—”

  He was interrupted by the reappearance of the chambermaid and the police searcher.