Hercule Poirot- the Complete Short Stories Read online

  To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coal bin, to the utter ruin of his neat light suit. He made a grimace.

  “But yes, my friend, it is against all my instincts so to ruin my appearance, but what will you?”

  “But Lavington can’t have buried it under the coal?”

  “If you would use your eyes, you would see that it is not the coal that I examine.”

  I then saw on a shelf behind the coal bunker some logs of wood were piled. Poirot was dexterously taking them down one by one. Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation.

  “Your knife, Hastings!”

  I handed it to him. He appeared to inset it in the wood, and suddenly the log split in two. It had been neatly sawn in half and a cavity hollowed out in the centre. From this cavity Poirot took a little wooden box of Chinese make.

  “Well done!” I cried, carried out of myself.

  “Gently, Hastings! Do not raise your voice too much. Come, let us be off, before the daylight is upon us.”

  Slipping the box into his pocket, he leaped lightly out of the coal-bunker, brushed himself down as well as he could, and leaving the house by the same way as we had come, we walked rapidly in the direction of London.

  “But what an extraordinary place!” I expostulated. “Anyone might have used the log.”

  “In July, Hastings? And it was at the bottom of the pile—a very ingenious hiding place. Ah, here is a taxi! Now for home, a wash, and a refreshing sleep.”

  IV

  After the excitement of the night, I slept late. When I finally strolled into our sitting room just before one o’clock, I was surprised to see Poirot, leaning back in an armchair, the Chinese box open beside him, calmly reading the letter he had taken from it.

  He smiled at me affectionately, and tapped the sheet he held.

  “She was right, the Lady Millicent; never would the Duke have pardoned this letter! It contains some of the most extravagant terms of affection I have ever come across.”

  “Really, Poirot,” I said, rather disgustedly, “I don’t think you should have read the letter. “That’s the sort of thing that isn’t done.”

  “It is done by Hercule Poirot,” replied my friend imperturbably.

  “And another thing,” I said. “I don’t think using Japp’s official card yesterday was quite playing the game.”

  “But I was not playing a game, Hastings. I was conducting a case.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. One can’t argue with a point of view.

  “A step on the stairs,” said Poirot. “That will be Lady Millicent.”

  Our fair client came in with an anxious expression on her face which changed to one of delight on seeing the letter and box which Poirot held up.

  “Oh, M. Poirot. How wonderful of you! How did you do it?”

  “By rather reprehensible methods, milady. But Mr. Lavington will not prosecute. This is your letter, is it not?”

  She glanced through it.

  “Yes. Oh, how can I ever thank you! You are a wonderful, wonderful man. Where was it hidden?”

  Poirot told her.

  “How very clever of you!” She took up the small box from the table. “I shall keep this as a souvenir.”

  “I had hoped, milady, that you would permit me to keep it—also as a souvenir.”

  “I hope to send you a better souvenir than that—on my wedding day. You shall not find me ungrateful, M. Poirot.”

  “The pleasure of doing you a service will be more to me than a cheque—so you permit that I retain the box.”

  “Oh no, M. Poirot, I simply must have that,” she cried laughingly.

  She stretched out her hand, but Poirot was before her. His hand closed over it.

  “I think not.” His voice had changed.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice seemed to have grown sharper.

  “At any rate, permit me to abstract its further contents. You observed that the original cavity has been reduced by half. In the top half, the compromising letter; in the bottom—”

  He made a nimble gesture, then held out his hand. On the palm were four large glittering stones, and two big milky white pearls.

  “The jewels stolen in Bond Street the other day, I rather fancy,” murmured Poirot. “Japp will tell us.”

  To my utter amazement, Japp himself stepped out from Poirot’s bedroom.

  “An old friend of yours, I believe,” said Poirot politely to Lady Millicent.

  “Nabbed, by the Lord!” said Lady Millicent, with a complete change of manner. “You nippy old devil!” She looked at Poirot with almost affectionate awe.

  “Well, Gertie, my dear,” said Japp, “the game’s up this time, I fancy. Fancy seeing you again so soon! We’ve got your pal, too, the gentleman who called here the other day calling himself Lavington. As for Lavington himself, alias Croker, alias Reed, I wonder which of the gang it was who stuck a knife into him the other day in Holland? Thought he’d got the goods with him, didn’t you? And he hadn’t. He double-crossed you properly—hid ’em in his own house. You had two fellows looking for them, and then you tackled M. Poirot here, and by a piece of amazing luck he found them.”

  “You do like talking, don’t you?” said the late Lady Millicent. “Easy there, now. I’ll go quietly. You can’t say that I’m not the perfect lady. Ta-ta, all!”

  “The shoes were wrong,” said Poirot dreamily, while I was still too stupefied to speak. “I have made my little observations of your English nation, and a lady, a born lady, is always particular about her shoes. She may have shabby clothes, but she will be well shod. Now, this Lady Millicent had smart, expensive clothes, and cheap shoes. It was not likely that either you or I should have seen the real Lady Millicent; she has been very little in London, and this girl had a certain superficial resemblance which would pass well enough. As I say, the shoes first awakened my suspicions, and then her story—and her veil—were a little melodramatic, eh? The Chinese box with a bogus compromising letter in the top must have been known to all the gang, but the log of wood was the late Mr. Lavington’s idea. Eh, par example, Hastings, I hope you will not again wound my feelings as you did yesterday by saying that I am unknown to the criminal classes. Ma foi, they even employ me when they themselves fail!”

  Fifteen

  THE ADVENTURE OF JOHNNIE WAVERLY

  “The Adventure of Johnnie Waverly” was first published as “The Kidnapping of Johnnie Waverly” in The Sketch, October 10, 1923.

  You can understand the feelings of a mother,” said Mrs. Waverly for perhaps the sixth time.

  She looked appealingly at Poirot. My little friend, always sympathetic to motherhood in distress, gesticulated reassuringly.

  “But yes, but yes, I comprehend perfectly. Have faith in Papa Poirot.”

  “The police—” began Mr. Waverly.

  His wife waved the interruption aside. “I won’t have anything more to do with the police. We trusted to them and look what happened! But I’d heard so much of M. Poirot and the wonderful things he’d done, that I felt he might possibly be able to help us. A mother’s feelings—”

  Poirot hastily stemmed the reiteration with an eloquent gesture. Mrs. Waverly’s emotion was obviously genuine, but it assorted strangely with her shrewd, rather hard type of countenance. When I heard later that she was the daughter of a prominent steel manufacturer who had worked his way up in the world from an office boy to his present eminence, I realized that she had inherited many of the paternal qualities.

  Mr. Waverly was a big, florid, jovial-looking man. He stood with his legs straddled wide apart and looked the type of the country squire.

  “I suppose you know all about this business, M. Poirot?”

  The question was almost superfluous. For some days past the papers had been full of the sensational kidnapping of little Johnnie Waverly, the three-year-old son and heir of Marcus Waverly, Esq., of Waverly Court, Surrey, one of the oldest families in England.

  “The main facts I know, of course
, but recount to me the whole story, monsieur, I beg of you. And in detail if you please.”

  “Well, I suppose the beginning of the whole thing was about ten days ago when I got an anonymous letter—beastly things, anyway—that I couldn’t make head or tail of. The writer had the impudence to demand that I should pay him twenty-five thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand pounds, M. Poirot! Failing my agreement, he threatened to kidnap Johnnie. Of course I threw the thing into the wastepaper basket without more ado. Thought it was some silly joke. Five days later I got another letter. ‘Unless you pay, your son will be kidnapped on the twenty-ninth.’ That was on the twenty-seventh. Ada was worried, but I couldn’t bring myself to treat the matter seriously. Damn it all, we’re in England. Nobody goes about kidnapping children and holding them up to ransom.”

  “It is not a common practice, certainly,” said Poirot. “Proceed, monsieur.”

  “Well, Ada gave me no peace, so—feeling a bit of a fool—I laid the matter before Scotland Yard. They didn’t seem to take the thing very seriously—inclined to my view that it was some silly joke. On the twenty-eighth I got a third letter. ‘You have not paid. Your son will be taken from you at twelve o’clock noon tomorrow, the twenty-ninth. It will cost you fifty thousand pounds to recover him.’ Up I drove to Scotland Yard again. This time they were more impressed. They inclined to the view that the letters were written by a lunatic, and that in all probability an attempt of some kind would be made at the hour stated. They assured me that they would take all due precautions. Inspector McNeil and a sufficient force would come down to Waverly on the morrow and take charge.

  “I went home much relieved in mind. Yet we already had the feeling of being in a state of siege. I gave orders that no stranger was to be admitted, and that no one was to leave the house. The evening passed off without any untoward incident, but on the following morning my wife was seriously unwell. Alarmed by her condition, I sent for Doctor Dakers. Her symptoms appeared to puzzle him. While hesitating to suggest that she had been poisoned, I could see that that was what was in his mind. There was no danger, he assured me, but it would be a day or two before she would be able to get about again. Returning to my own room, I was startled and amazed to find a note pinned to my pillow. It was in the same handwriting as the others and contained just three words: ‘At twelve o’clock.’

  “I admit, M. Poirot, that then I saw red! Someone in the house was in this—one of the servants. I had them all up, blackguarded them right and left. They never split on each other; it was Miss Collins, my wife’s companion, who informed me that she had seen Johnnie’s nurse slip down the drive early that morning. I taxed her with it, and she broke down. She had left the child with the nursery maid and stolen out to meet a friend of hers—a man! Pretty goings on! She denied having pinned the note to my pillow—she may have been speaking the truth, I don’t know. I felt I couldn’t take the risk of the child’s own nurse being in the plot. One of the servants was implicated—of that I was sure. Finally I lost my temper and sacked the whole bunch, nurse and all. I gave them an hour to pack their boxes and get out of the house.”

  Mr. Waverly’s face was quite two shades redder as he remembered his just wrath.

  “Was not that a little injudicious, monsieur?” suggested Poirot. “For all you know, you might have been playing into the enemy’s hands.”

  Mr. Waverly stared at him. “I don’t see that. Send the whole lot packing, that was my idea. I wired to London for a fresh lot to be sent down that evening. In the meantime, there’d be only people I could trust in the house: my wife’s secretary, Miss Collins, and Tredwell, the butler, who has been with me since I was a boy.”

  “And this Miss Collins, how long has she been with you?”

  “Just a year,” said Mrs. Waverly. “She has been invaluable to me as a secretary-companion, and is also a very efficient housekeeper.”

  “The nurse?”

  “She has been with me six months. She came to me with excellent references. All the same, I never really liked her, although Johnnie was quite devoted to her.”

  “Still, I gather she had already left when the catastrophe occurred. Perhaps, Monsieur Waverly, you will be so kind as to continue.”

  Mr. Waverly resumed his narrative.

  “Inspector McNeil arrived about ten thirty. The servants had all left by then. He declared himself quite satisfied with the internal arrangements. He had various men posted in the park outside, guarding all the approaches to the house, and he assured me that if the whole thing were not a hoax, we should undoubtedly catch my mysterious correspondent.

  “I had Johnnie with me, and he and I and the inspector went together into the room we call the council chamber. The inspector locked the door. There is a big grandfather clock there, and as the hands drew near to twelve I don’t mind confessing that I was as nervous as a cat. There was a whirring sound, and the clock began to strike. I clutched at Johnnie. I had a feeling a man might drop from the skies. The last stroke sounded, and as it did so, there was a great commotion outside—shouting and running. The inspector flung up the window, and a constable came running up.

  “ ‘We’ve got him sir,’ he panted. ‘He was sneaking up through the bushes. He’s got a whole dope outfit on him.’

  “We hurried out on the terrace where two constables were holding a ruffianly-looking fellow in shabby clothes, who was twisting and turning in a vain endeavour to escape. One of the policemen held out an unrolled parcel which they had wrested from their captive. It contained a pad of cotton wool and a bottle of chloroform. It made my blood boil to see it. There was a note, too, addressed to me. I tore it open. It bore the following words: ‘You should have paid up. To ransom your son will now cost you fifty thousand. In spite of all your precautions he has been abducted on the twenty-ninth as I said.’

  “I gave a great laugh, the laugh of relief, but as I did so I heard the hum of a motor and a shout. I turned my head. Racing down the drive towards the south lodge at a furious speed was a low, long grey car. It was the man who drove it who shouted, but that was not what gave me a shock of horror. It was the sight of Johnnie’s flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him.

  “The inspector ripped out an oath. ‘The child was here not a minute ago,’ he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss Collins. ‘When did you last see him, Mr. Waverly?’

  “I cast my mind back, trying to remember. When the constable had called us, I had run out with the inspector, forgetting all about Johnnie.

  “And then there came a sound that startled us, the chiming of a church clock from the village. With an exclamation the inspector pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With one common accord we ran to the council chamber; the clock there marked the hour as ten minutes past. Someone must have deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper.”

  Mr. Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat which the anxious father had pushed askew.

  “A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming,” murmured Poirot. “I will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned à merveille.”

  Mrs. Waverly looked at him reproachfully. “But my boy,” she wailed.

  Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest sympathy again. “He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey—no, the goose—that lays the golden eggs?”

  “M. Poirot, I’m sure there’s only one thing to be done—pay up. I was all against it at first—but now! A mother’s feelings—”

  “But we have interrupted monsieur in his history,” cried Poirot hastily.

  “I expect you know the rest pretty well from the papers,” said Mr. Waverly. “Of course, Inspector McNeil got on to the telephone immediately. A description of the car and the man was circulated all round, and it looked at first as though everything
was going to turn out all right. A car, answering to the description, with a man and a small boy, had passed through various villages, apparently making for London. At one place they had stopped, and it was noticed that the child was crying and obviously afraid of his companion. When Inspector McNeil announced that the car had been stopped and the man and boy detained, I was almost ill with relief. You know the sequel. The boy was not Johnnie, and the man was an ardent motorist, fond of children, who had picked up a small child playing in the streets of Edenswell, a village about fifteen miles from us, and was kindly giving him a ride. Thanks to the cocksure blundering of the police, all traces have disappeared. Had they not persistently followed the wrong car, they might by now have found the boy.”

  “Calm yourself, monsieur. The police are a brave and intelligent force of men. Their mistake was a very natural one. And altogether it was a clever scheme. As to the man they caught in the grounds, I understand that his defence has consisted all along of a persistent denial. He declared that the note and parcel were given to him to deliver at Waverly Court. The man who gave them to him handed him a ten-shilling note and promised him another if it were delivered at exactly ten minutes to twelve. He was to approach the house through the grounds and knock at the side door.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” declared Mrs. Waverly hotly. “It’s all a parcel of lies.”

  “En verité, it is a thin story,” said Poirot reflectively. “But so far they have not shaken it. I understand, also, that he made a certain accusation?”

  His glance interrogated Mr. Waverly. The latter got rather red again.

  “The fellow had the impertinence to pretend that he recognized in Tredwell the man who gave him the parcel. ‘Only the bloke has shaved off his moustache.’ Tredwell, who was born on the estate!”