Midsummer Mysteries Read online

  He summed the young man up carefully as he entered the room, the weak mouth camouflaged by the rather charming smile, the indecisive chin, the eyes set far apart, the rather narrow head. He thought that he knew Reggie Carrington’s type fairly well.

  ‘Mr Reggie Carrington?’

  ‘Yes. Anything I can do?’

  ‘Just tell me what you can about last night?’

  ‘Well, let me see, we played bridge—in the drawing-room. After that I went up to bed.’

  ‘That was at what time?’

  ‘Just before eleven. I suppose the robbery took place after that?’

  ‘Yes, after that. You did not hear or see anything?’

  Reggie shook his head regretfully.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I went straight to bed and I sleep pretty soundly.’

  ‘You went straight up from the drawing-room to your bedroom and remained there until the morning?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Curious,’ said Poirot.

  Reggie said sharply:

  ‘What do you mean, curious?’

  ‘You did not, for instance, hear a scream?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Ah, very curious.’

  ‘Look here, I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You are, perhaps, slightly deaf?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  Poirot’s lips moved. It was possible that he was repeating the word curious for the third time. Then he said:

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Carrington, that is all.’

  Reggie got up and stood rather irresolutely.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘now you come to mention it, I believe I did hear something of the kind.’

  ‘Ah, you did hear something?’

  ‘Yes, but you see, I was reading a book—a detective story as a matter of fact—and I—well, I didn’t really quite take it in.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Poirot, ‘a most satisfying explanation.’

  His face was quite impassive.

  Reggie still hesitated, then he turned and walked slowly to the door. There he paused and asked:

  ‘I say, what was stolen?’

  ‘Something of great value, Mr Carrington. That is all I am at liberty to say.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Reggie rather blankly.

  He went out.

  Poirot nodded his head.

  ‘It fits,’ he murmured. ‘It fits very nicely.’

  He touched a bell and inquired courteously if Mrs Vanderlyn was up yet.

  Mrs Vanderlyn swept into the room looking very handsome. She was wearing an artfully-cut russet sports-suit that showed up the warm lights of her hair. She swept to a chair and smiled in a dazzling fashion at the little man in front of her.

  For a moment something showed through the smile. It might have been triumph, it might almost have been mockery. It was gone almost immediately, but it had been there. Poirot found the suggestion of it interesting.

  ‘Burglars? Last night? But how dreadful! Why no, I never heard a thing. What about the police? Can’t they do anything?’

  Again, just for a moment, the mockery showed in her eyes.

  Hercule Poirot thought:

  ‘It is very clear that you are not afraid of the police, my lady. You know very well that they are not going to be called in.’

  And from that followed—what?

  He said soberly:

  ‘You comprehend, madame, it is an affair of the most discreet.’

  ‘Why, naturally, M.—Poirot—isn’t it?—I shouldn’t dream of breathing a word. I’m much too great an admirer of dear Lord Mayfield’s to do anything to cause him the least little bit of worry.’

  She crossed her knees. A highly-polished slipper of brown leather dangled on the tip of her silk-shod foot.

  She smiled, a warm, compelling smile of perfect health and deep satisfaction.

  ‘Do tell me if there’s anything at all I can do?’

  ‘I thank you, madame. You played bridge in the drawing-room last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand that then all the ladies went up to bed?’

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘But someone came back to fetch a book. That was you, was it not, Mrs Vanderlyn?’

  ‘I was the first one to come back—yes.’

  ‘What do you mean—the first one?’ said Poirot sharply.

  ‘I came back right away,’ explained Mrs Vanderlyn. ‘Then I went up and rang for my maid. She was a long time in coming. I rang again. Then I went out on the landing. I heard her voice and I called her. After she had brushed my hair I sent her away, she was in a nervous, upset state and tangled the brush in my hair once or twice. It was then, just as I sent her away, that I saw Lady Julia coming up the stairs. She told me she had been down again for a book, too. Curious, wasn’t it?’

  Mrs Vanderlyn smiled as she finished, a wide, rather feline smile. Hercule Poirot thought to himself that Mrs Vanderlyn did not like Lady Julia Carrington.

  ‘As you say, madame. Tell me, did you hear your maid scream?’

  ‘Why, yes, I did hear something of that kind.’

  ‘Did you ask her about it?’

  ‘Yes. She told me she thought she had seen a floating figure in white—such nonsense!’

  ‘What was Lady Julia wearing last night?’

  ‘Oh, you think perhaps—Yes, I see. She was wearing a white evening-dress. Of course, that explains it. She must have caught sight of her in the darkness just as a white figure. These girls are so superstitious.’

  ‘Your maid has been with you a long time, madame?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Vanderlyn opened her eyes rather wide. ‘Only about five months.’

  ‘I should like to see her presently, if you do not mind, madame.’

  Mrs Vanderlyn raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, certainly,’ she said rather coldly.

  ‘I should like, you understand, to question her.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Again a flicker of amusement.

  Poirot rose and bowed.

  ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘You have my complete admiration.’

  Mrs Vanderlyn for once seemed a trifle taken aback.

  ‘Oh, M. Poirot, how nice of you, but why?’

  ‘You are, madame, so perfectly armoured, so completely sure of yourself.’

  Mrs Vanderlyn laughed a little uncertainly.

  ‘Now I wonder,’ she said, ‘if I am to take that as a compliment?’

  Poirot said:

  ‘It is, perhaps, a warning—not to treat life with arrogance.’

  Mrs Vanderlyn laughed with more assurance. She got up and held out a hand.

  ‘Dear M. Poirot, I do wish you all success. Thank you for all the charming things you have said to me.’

  She went out. Poirot murmured to himself:

  ‘You wish me success, do you? Ah, but you are very sure I am not going to meet with success! Yes, you are very sure indeed. That, it annoys me very much.’

  With a certain petulance, he pulled the bell and asked that Mademoiselle Leonie might be sent to him.

  His eyes roamed over her appreciatively as she stood hesitating in the doorway, demure in her black dress with her neatly-parted black waves of hair and her modestly-dropped eyelids. He nodded slow approval.

  ‘Come in, Mademoiselle Leonie,’ he said. ‘Do not be afraid.’

  She came in and stood demurely before him.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Poirot with a sudden change of tone, ‘that I find you very good to look at.’

  Leonie responded promptly. She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes and murmured softly:

  ‘Monsieur is very kind.’

  ‘Figure to yourself,’ said Poirot. ‘I demand of M. Carlile whether you are or not good-looking and he replies that he does not know!’

  Leonie cocked her chin up contemptuously.

  ‘That image!’

  ‘That describes him very well.’

  ‘I do not b
elieve he has ever looked at a girl in his life, that one.’

  ‘Probably not. A pity. He has missed a lot. But there are others in this house who are more appreciative, is it not so?’

  ‘Really, I do not know what monsieur means.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mademoiselle Leonie, you know very well. A pretty history that you recount last night about a ghost that you have seen. As soon as I hear that you are standing there with your hands to your head, I know very well that there is no question of ghosts. If a girl is frightened she clasps her heart, or she raises her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry, but if her hands are on her hair it means something very different. It means that her hair has been ruffled and that she is hastily getting it into shape again! Now then, mademoiselle, let us have the truth. Why did you scream on the stairs?’

  ‘But monsieur it is true, I saw a tall figure all in white—’

  ‘Mademoiselle, do not insult my intelligence. That story, it may have been good enough for M. Carlile, but it is not good enough for Hercule Poirot. The truth is that you had just been kissed, is it not so? And I will make a guess that it was M. Reggie Carrington who kissed you.’

  Leonie twinkled an unabashed eye at him.

  ‘Eh bien,’ she demanded, ‘after all, what is a kiss?’

  ‘What, indeed?’ said Poirot gallantly.

  ‘You see, the young gentleman he came up behind me and caught me round the waist—and so naturally he startled me and I screamed. If I had known—well, then naturally I would not have screamed.’

  ‘Naturally,’ agreed Poirot.

  ‘But he came upon me like a cat. Then the study door opened and out came M. le secrétaire and the young gentleman slipped away upstairs and there I was looking like a fool. Naturally I had to say something—especially to—’ she broke into French, ‘un jeune homme comme ça, tellement comme il faut!’

  ‘So you invent a ghost?’

  ‘Indeed, monsieur, it was all I could think of. A tall figure all in white, that floated. It is ridiculous but what else could I do?’

  ‘Nothing. So now, all is explained. I had my suspicions from the first.’

  Leonie shot him a provocative glance.

  ‘Monsieur is very clever, and very sympathetic.’

  ‘And since I am not going to make you any embarrassments over the affair you will do something for me in return?’

  ‘Most willingly, monsieur.’

  ‘How much do you know of your mistress’s affairs?’

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Not very much, monsieur. I have my ideas, of course.’

  ‘And those ideas?’

  ‘Well, it does not escape me that the friends of madame are always soldiers or sailors or airmen. And then there are other friends—foreign gentlemen who come to see her very quietly sometimes. Madame is very handsome, though I do not think she will be so much longer. The young men, they find her very attractive. Sometimes I think, they say too much. But it is only my idea, that. Madame does not confide in me.’

  ‘What you would have me to understand is that madame plays a lone hand?’

  ‘That is right, monsieur.’

  ‘In other words, you cannot help me.’

  ‘I fear not, monsieur. I would do if I could.’

  ‘Tell me, your mistress is in a good mood today?’

  ‘Decidedly, monsieur.’

  ‘Something has happened to please her?’

  ‘She has been in good spirits ever since she came here.’

  ‘Well, Leonie, you should know.’

  The girl answered confidently:

  ‘Yes, monsieur. I could not be mistaken there. I know all madame’s moods. She is in high spirits.’

  ‘Positively triumphant?’

  ‘That is exactly the word, monsieur.’

  Poirot nodded gloomily.

  ‘I find that—a little hard to bear. Yet I perceive that it is inevitable. Thank you, mademoiselle, that is all.’

  Leonie threw him a coquettish glance.

  ‘Thank you, monsieur. If I meet monsieur on the stairs, be well assured that I shall not scream.’

  ‘My child,’ said Poirot with dignity. ‘I am of advanced years. What have I to do with such frivolities?’

  But with a little twitter of laughter, Leonie took herself off.

  Poirot paced slowly up and down the room. His face became grave and anxious.

  ‘And now,’ he said at last, ‘for Lady Julia. What will she say, I wonder?’

  Lady Julia came into the room with a quiet air of assurance. She bent her head graciously, accepted the chair that Poirot drew forward and spoke in a low, well-bred voice.

  ‘Lord Mayfield says that you wish to ask me some questions.’

  ‘Yes, madame. It is about last night.’

  ‘About last night, yes?’

  ‘What happened after you had finished your game of bridge?’

  ‘My husband thought it was too late to begin another. I went up to bed.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I went to sleep.’

  ‘That is all?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of much interest. When did this’—she hesitated—‘burglary occur?’

  ‘Very soon after you went upstairs.’

  ‘I see. And what exactly was taken?’

  ‘Some private papers, madame.’

  ‘Important papers?’

  ‘Very important.’

  She frowned a little and then said:

  ‘They were—valuable?’

  ‘Yes, madame, they were worth a good deal of money.’

  ‘I see.’

  There was a pause, and then Poirot said:

  ‘What about your book, madame?’

  ‘My book?’ She raised bewildered eyes to him.

  ‘Yes, I understand Mrs Vanderlyn to say that some time after you three ladies had retired you went down again to fetch a book.’

  ‘Yes, of course, so I did.’

  ‘So that, as a matter of fact, you did not go straight to bed when you went upstairs? You returned to the drawing-room?’

  ‘Yes, that is true. I had forgotten.’

  ‘While you were in the drawing-room, did you hear someone scream?’

  ‘No—yes—I don’t think so.’

  ‘Surely, madame. You could not have failed to hear it in the drawing-room.’

  Lady Julia flung her head back and said firmly:

  ‘I heard nothing.’

  Poirot raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.

  The silence grew uncomfortable. Lady Julia asked abruptly:

  ‘What is being done?’

  ‘Being done? I do not understand you, madame.’

  ‘I mean about the robbery. Surely the police must be doing something.’

  Poirot shook his head.

  ‘The police have not been called in. I am in charge.’

  She stared at him, her restless haggard face sharpened and tense. Her eyes, dark and searching, sought to pierce his impassivity.

  They fell at last—defeated.

  ‘You cannot tell me what is being done?’

  ‘I can only assure you, madame, that I am leaving no stone unturned.’

  ‘To catch the thief—or to—recover the papers?’

  ‘The recovery of the papers is the main thing, madame.’

  Her manner changed. It became bored, listless.

  ‘Yes,’ she said indifferently. ‘I suppose it is.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Is there anything else, M. Poirot?’

  ‘No, madame. I will not detain you further.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He opened the door for her. She passed out without glancing at him.

  Poirot went back to the fireplace and carefully rearranged the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He was still at it when Lord Mayfield came in through the window.

  ‘Well?’ said the latter.

  ‘Very well, I think. Events are shaping themselves
as they should.’

  Lord Mayfield said, staring at him:

  ‘You are pleased.’

  ‘No, I am not pleased. But I am content.’

  ‘Really, M. Poirot, I cannot make you out.’

  ‘I am not such a charlatan as you think.’

  ‘I never said—’

  ‘No, but you thought! No matter. I am not offended. It is sometimes necessary for me to adopt a certain pose.’

  Lord Mayfield looked at him doubtfully with a certain amount of distrust. Hercule Poirot was a man he did not understand. He wanted to despise him, but something warned him that this ridiculous little man was not so futile as he appeared. Charles McLaughlin had always been able to recognize capability when he saw it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we are in your hands. What do you advise next?’

  ‘Can you get rid of your guests?’

  ‘I think it might be arranged … I could explain that I have to go to London over this affair. They will then probably offer to leave.’

  ‘Very good. Try and arrange it like that.’

  Lord Mayfield hesitated.

  ‘You don’t think—?’

  ‘I am quite sure that that would be the wise course to take.’

  Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well, if you say so.’

  He went out.

  The guests left after lunch. Mrs Vanderlyn and Mrs Macatta went by train, the Carringtons had their car. Poirot was standing in the hall as Mrs Vanderlyn bade her host a charming farewell.

  ‘So terribly sorry for you having this bother and anxiety. I do hope it will turn out all right for you. I shan’t breathe a word of anything.’

  She pressed his hand and went out to where the Rolls was waiting to take her to the station. Mrs Macatta was already inside. Her adieu had been curt and unsympathetic.

  Suddenly Leonie, who had been getting in front with the chauffeur, came running back into the hall.

  ‘The dressing-case of madame, it is not in the car,’ she exclaimed.

  There was a hurried search. At last Lord Mayfield discovered it where it had been put down in the shadow of an old oak chest. Leonie uttered a glad little cry as she seized the elegant affair of green morocco, and hurried out with it.

  Then Mrs Vanderlyn leaned out of the car.

  ‘Lord Mayfield, Lord Mayfield.’ She handed him a letter. ‘Would you mind putting this in your post-bag? If I keep it meaning to post it in town, I’m sure to forget. Letters just stay in my bag for days.’