Hercule Poirot's Early Cases Part 18

'He could have handed the stuff to a confederate who pushed off at once in a fast car. But that's just theory. We've got to find the car and the confederate and pin the thing down.'

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

'Do you think that was how it was done?' I asked him, as we were seated in the train.

'No, my friend, that was not how it was done. It was cleverer than that.'

'Won't you tell me?'

'Not yet. You know - it is my weakness - I like to keep my little secrets till the end.'

'Is the end going to be soon?' every soon now.'

We arrived in Ebermouth a little after six and Poirot drove at once to the shop which bore the name 'Elizabeth Penn'. The establishment was closed, but Poirot rang the bell, and presently Mary herself opened the door, and expressed surprise and delight at seeing us.

'Please come in and see my aunt,' she said.

She led us into a back room. An elderly lady came forward to meet us; she had white hair and looked rather like a miniature herself with her pink-and-white skin and her blue eyes. Round her rather bent shoulders she wore a cape of priceless old lace.

'Is this the great Monsieur Poirot?' she asked in a low charming voice. 'Mary has been telling me. I could hardly believe it. And you will really help us in our trouble. You will advise us?' Poirot looked at her for a moment, then bowed.

'Mademoiselle Penn - the effect is charming. But you should really grow a moustache.'

Miss Penn gave a gasp and drew back.

'You were absent from business yesterday, were you not?'

'I was here in the morning. Later I had a bad headache and went directly home.'

'Not home, mademoiselle. For your headache you tried the change of air, did you not? The air of Charlock Bay is very bracing, I believe.'

He took me by the arm and drew me towards the door. He paused there and spoke over his shoulder.

'You comprehend, I know everything. This little - farce - it must cease.'

There was a menace in his tone. Miss Penn, her face ghastly white, nodded mutely. Poirot turned to the girl.

'Mademoiselle,' he said gently, 'you are young and charming.

But partic.i.p.ating in these little affairs will lead to that youth and charm being hidden behind prison walls - and I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that will be a pity.'

Then he stepped out into the street and I followed him, be-wildered.

'From the first, mon ami, I was interested. When that young man booked his place as far as Monkhampton only, I saw the girl's attention suddenly riveted on him. Now why? He was not of the type to make a woman look at him for himself alone. When we started on that coach, I had a feeling that something would happen. Who saw the young man tampering with the luggage Mademoiselle and mademoiselle only, and remember she chos that seat - a seat facing the window - a most unfeminine choice.

'And then she comes to us with the tale of robbery- the despatch box forced which makes not the common sense, as I told you at the time.

'And what is the result of it all? Mr Baker Wood has paid over good money for stolen goods. The miniatures will be returned to Miss Penn. She will sell them and will have made a thousand pounds instead of five hundred. I make the discreet inquiries and learn that her business is in a bad state - touch and go. I say to myself- the aunt and niece are in this together.' 'Then you never suspected Norton Kane?' Then amfl With that moustache? A criminal is either clean shaven or he has a proper moustache that can be removed at will.

But what an opportunity for the clever Miss Penn - a shrinking elderly lady with a pink-and-white complexion as we saw her.

But if she holds herself erect, wears large boots, alters her complexion with a few unseemly blotches and - crowning touch adds a few spa.r.s.e hairs to her upper lip. What then? A masculine woman, says Mr Wood and - "a man in disguise" say we at once.' 'She really went to Charlock yesterday?' 'a.s.suredly. The train, as you may remember telling me, left here at eleven and got to Charlock Bay at two o'clock. Then the return train is even quicker - the one we came by. It leaves Charlock at four-five and gets here at six-fifteen. Naturally, the miniatures were never in the despatch case at all. That was artistically forced before being packed. Mademoiselle Mary has only to find a couple of mugs who will be sympathetic to her charm and champion beauty in distress. But one of the mugs was no mug - he was Hercule Poirotl' I hardly liked the inference. I said hurriedly: 'Then, when you aid you were helping a stranger, you were wilfully deceiving me.

That's exactly what you were doing.' 'Never do I deceive you, Hastings. I only permit you to deceive yourself. I was referring to Mr Baker Wood - a stranger to these sh.o.r.es.' His face darkened. 'Ahl When I think of that imposition, that iniquitous overcharge, the same fare single to Charlock as return, my blood boils to protect the visitor! Not a pleasant man, Mr Baker Wood, not, as you would say, sympathetic. But a visitor! And we visitors, Hastings, must stand together. Me, I am all for the visitorst'

CHAPTER XIV

THE MARKET BASING MYSTERY.

'After all, there's nothing like the country, is there?' said Inspector j.a.pp, breathing in heavily through his nose and out through his mouth in the most approved fas.h.i.+on.

Poirot and I applauded the sentiment heartily. It had been the Scotland Yard inspector's idea that we should all go for the week-end to the little country town of Market Basing. When off duty, j.a.pp was an ardent botanist, and discoursed upon minute flowers possessed of unbelievably lengthy Latin names (somewhat strangely p.r.o.nounced) with an enthusiasm even greater than that he gave to his cases.

'n.o.body knows us, and we know n.o.body,' explained j.a.pp.

'That's the idea.'

This was not to prove quite the case, however, for the local constable happened to have been transferred from a village fifteen miles away where a case of a.r.s.enical poisoning had brought him into contact with the Scotland Yard man. However, his delighted recognition of the great man only enhanced j.a.pp's sense of well-being, and as we sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning in the parlour of the village inn, with the sun s.h.i.+ning, and tendrils of honeysuckle thrusting themselves in at the window, we were all in the best of spirits. The bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but pa.s.sable and boiling hot.

'This is the life,' said j.a.pp. 'When I retire, I shall have a little place in the country. Far from crime, like this!'

'Lc crime, il est partout,' remarked Poirot, helping himself to a neat square of bread, and frowning at a sparrow which had balanced itself impertinently on the windowsill.

I quoted lightly: 'That rabbit has a pleasant face, His private life is a disgrace I really could not tell to you The awful things that rabbits do.'

'Lord,' said j.a.pp, stretching himself backward, 'I believe I could manage another egg, and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon.

What do you say, Captain?' 'I'm with you,' I returned heartily. 'What about you, Poirot?' Porot shook his head.

'One must not so replenish the stomach that the brain refuses to function,' he remarked.

'I'll risk replenis.h.i.+ng the stomach a bit more,' laughed Jalap.

'I take a large size in stomachs; and by the way, you're getting stout yourself, M. Poirot. Here, miss, eggs and bacon twice.' At that moment, however, an imposing form blocked the doorway.

It was Constable Pollard.

'I hope you'll excuse me troubling the inspector, gentlemen, but I'd be glad of his advice.' 'I'm on my holiday,' said j.a.pp hastily. 'No work for me. What is the case?' 'Gentleman up at Leigh Hall - shot himself - through the head.' 'Well, they will do it,' said j.a.pp prosaically. 'Debt, or a woman, I suppose. Sorry I can't help you, Pollard.' 'The point is,' said the constable, 'that he can't have shot himself. Leastways, that's what Dr Giles says.' j.a.pp put down his cup.

'Can't have shot him-serf? What do you mean?' 'That's what Dr Giles says,' repeated Pollard. 'He says it's plumb impossible. He's puzzled to death, the door being locked on the inside and the window bolted; but he sticks to it that the man couldn't have committed suicide.' That settled it. The further supply of bacon and eggs were waved aside, and a few minutes later we were all walking as fast as we could in the direction of Leigh House, j.a.pp eagerly questioning the constable.

The name of the deceased was Walter Protheroe; he was a man of middle age and something of a recluse. He had come to Market Basing eight years ago and rented Leigh House, a rambling, dilapidated old mansion fast falling into ruin. He lived in a corner of it, his wants attended to by a housekeeper whom he had brought with him. Miss Clegg was her name, and she was a very superior woman and highly thought of in the village. Just lately Mr Protheroe had had visitors staying with him, a Mr and Mrs Parker from London. This morning, unable to get a reply when she went to call her master, and finding the door locked, Miss Clegg became alarmed, and telephoned for the police and the doctor. Constable Pollard and Dr Giles had arrived at the same moment. Their united efforts had succeeded in breaking down the oak door of his bedroom.

Mr Protheroe was lying on the floor, shot through the head, and the pistol was clasped in his right hand. It looked a clear case of suicide.

After examining the body, however, Dr Giles became clearly perplexed, and finally he drew the constable aside, and communicated his perplexities to him; whereupon Pollard had at once thought of j.a.pp. Leaving the doctor in charge, he had hurried down to the inn.

By the time the constable's recital was over, we had arrived at Leigh House, a big, desolate house surrounded by an unkempt, weed-ridden garden. The front door was open, and we pa.s.sed at once into the hall and from there into a small morning-room whence proceeded the sound of voices. Four people were in the room: a somewhat flas.h.i.+ly dressed man with a s.h.i.+fty, unpleasant face to whom I took an immediate dislike; a woman of much the same type, though handsome in a coa.r.s.e fas.h.i.+on; another woman dressed in neat black who stood apart from the rest, and whom I took to be the housekeeper; and a tall man dressed in sporting tweeds, with a clever, capable face, and who was clearly in command of the situation.

'Dr Giles,' said the constable, 'this is Detective-Inspector j.a.pp of Scotland Yard, and his two friends.' The doctor greeted us and made us known to Mr and Mrs Parker. Then we accompanied him upstairs. Pollard, in obedience to a sign from j.a.pp, remained below, as it were on guard over the household. The doctor led us upstairs and along a pa.s.sage. A door was open at the end; splinters hung from the hinges, and the door itself had crashed to the floor inside the room.

We went in. The body was still lying on the floor. Mr Protheroe had been a man of middle age, bearded, with hair grey at the temples. j.a.pp went and knelt by the body.

'Why couldn't you leave it as you found it?' he grumbled.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

'We thought it a clear case of suicide.'

'H'mt' said j.a.pp. 'Bullet entered the head behind the left ear.' 'Exactly,' said the doctor. 'Clearly impossible for him to have fired it himself. He'd have had to twist his hand right round his head. It couldn't have been done.'

'Yet you found the pistol clasped in his hand? Where is it, by the way?'

The doctor nodded to the table.

'But it wasn't clasped in his hand,' he said. 'It was inside the hand, but the fingers weren't closed over it.'

'Put there afterwards,' said j.a.pp; 'that's clear enough.' He was examining the weapon. 'One cartridge fired. We'll test it for fingerprints, but I doubt if we'll find any but yours, Dr Giles.

How long has he been dead?'

'Some time last night. I can't give the time to an hour or so, as thoe wonderful doctors in detective stories do. Roughly, he's been dead about twelve hours.'

So far, Poirot had not made a move of any kind. He had remained by my side, watching j.a.pp at work and listening to his questions.

Only, from time to time he had sniffed the air very delicately, and as if puzzled. I too bad sniffed, but could detect nothing to arouse interest. The air seemed perfectly fresh and devoid of odour. And yet, from time to time, Poirot continued to sniff it dubiously, as though his keener nose detected something I had missed.

Now, as j.a.pp moved away from the body, Poirot knelt down by it. He took no interest in the wound. I thought at first that he was examining the fingers of the hand that had held the pistol, but in a minute I saw that it was a handkerchief carried in the coat-sleeve that interested him. Mr Protheroe was dressed in a dark grey lounge-suit. Finally Poirot got up from his knees, but his eyes still strayed back to the handkerchief as though puzzled.

j.a.pp called to him to come and help to lift the door. Seizing my opportunity, I too knelt down, and taking the handkerchief from the sleeve, scrutinized it minutely. It was a perfectly plain handkerchief of white cambric; there was no mark or stain on it of any kind. I replaced it, shaking my head, and confessing myself baffled.

The others had raised the door. I realized that they were hunting for the key. They looked in vain.

'That settles it,' said j.a.pp. 'The window's shut and bolted.

The murderer left by the door, locking it and taking the key with him. He thought it would be accepted that Protherhoe had locked himself in and shot himself, and that the absence of the key would not be noticed. You agree, M. Poirot?'

'I agree, yes; but it would have been simpler and better to slip the key back inside the room under the door. Then it would look as though it had fallen from the lock.'

'Ah, well, you can't expect everybody to have the bright ideas that you have. You'd have been a holy terror if you'd taken to crime. Any remarks to make, M. Poirot?'

Poirot, it seemed to me, was somewhat at a loss. He looked round the room and remarked mildly and almost apologetically: 'He smoked a lot, this monsieur.'

True enough, the grate was filled with cigarette-stubs, as was an ashtray that stood on a small table near the big armchair.

'He must have got through about twenty cigarettes last night,' remarked j.a.pp. Stooping down, he examined the contents of the grate carefully, then transferred his attention to the ashtray.

'They're all the same kind,' he announced, 'and smoked by the same man. There's nothing there, M. Poirot.'

'I did not suggest that there was,' murmured my friend.

'Ha,' cried j.a.pp, 'what's this?' He pounced on something bright and glittering that lay on the floor near the dead man. 'A broken cuff-link. I wonder who this belongs to. Dr Giles, I'd be obliged if you'd go down and send up the housekeeper.'

'What about the Parkers? He's very anxious to leave the house - says he's got urgent business in London.'

'I dare say. It'll have to get on without him. By the way things are going, it's likely that there'll be some urgent business down here for him to attend to! Send up the housekeeper, and don't let either of the Parkers give you and Pollard the slip. Did any of the household come in here this morning?'

The doctor reflected.

'No, they stood outside in the corridor while Pollard and I came in.'

'Sure of that?'

'Absolutely certain.'

The doctor departed on his mission.

'Good man, that,' said j.a.pp approvingly. 'Some of these sporting doctors are first-cla.s.s fellows. Well, I wonder who shot this chap. It looks like one of the three in the house. I hardly suspect the housekeeper. She's had eight years to shoot him in if she wanted to. I wonder who these Parkers are? They're not a prepossessing-looking couple.'

Miss Clegg appeared at this juncture. She was a thin, gaunt woman with neat grey hair parted in the middle, very staid and calm in manner. Nevertheless there was an air of efficiency about her which commanded respect. In answer to j.a.pp's questions, she explained that she had been with the dead man for fourteen years. He had been a generous and considerate master. She had never seen Mr and Mrs Parker until three days ago, when they arrived unexpectedly to stay. She was of the opinion that they had asked themselves - the master had certainly not seemed pleased to see them. The cuff-links which j.a.pp showed her had not belonged to Mr Protheroe - she was sure of that. Questioned about the pistol, she said that she believed her master had a weapon of that kind. He kept it locked up. She had seen it once some years ago, but could not say whether this was the same one. She had heard no shot last night, but that was not surprising, as it was a big, rambling house, and her rooms and those prepared for the Parkers were at the other end of the building. She did not know what time Mr Protheroe had gone tbed - he was still up when she retired at half past nine. It was not his habit to go at once to bed when he went to his room. Usually he would sit up half the night, reading and smoking. He was a great smoker.

Then Poirot interposed a question: 'Did your master sleep with his window open or shut, as a rule?' Miss Clegg considered.

'It was usually open, at any rate at the top.' 'Yet now it is closed. Can you explain that?' 'No, unless he felt a draught and shut it.' j.a.pp asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her.

Next he interviewed the Parkers separately. Mrs Parker was inclined to be hysterical and tearful; Mr Parker was full of bl.u.s.ter and abuse. He denied that the cuff-link was his, but as his wife had previously recognized it, this hardly improved matters for him; and as he had also denied ever having been in Protheroe's room, j.a.pp considered that he had sufficient evidence to apply for a warrant.

Leaving Pollard in charge, j.a.pp bustled back to the village and got into telephonic communication with headquarters. Poirot and I strolled back to the inn.

'You're unusually quiet,' I said. 'Doesn't the case interest you?' 'Au contraire, it interests me enormously. But it puzzles me also.' 'The motive is obscure,' I said thoughtfully, 'but I'm certain that Parker's a bad lot. The case against him seems pretty clear but for the lack of motive, and that may come out later.' 'Nothing struck you as being especially significant, although overlooked by j.a.pp?' I looked at him curiously.

'What have you got up your sleeve, Poirot?' 'What did the dead man have up his sleeve?' 'Oh, that handkerchiefl' 'Exactly, the handkerchief.' 'A sailor carries his handkerchief in his sleeve,' I said thoughtfully.

'An excellent point, Hastings, though not the one I had in mind.'

'Anything else?'

'Yes, over and over again I go back to the smell of cigarette-smoke.'

'I didn't smell any,' I cried wonderingly.