Читать книгу Poirot’s Early Cases - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 13

‘Aha!’ cried Poirot angrily. ‘And they think to get rid of Hercule Poirot like that! As a favour—a great favour—I consent to investigate their miserable little twopenny-halfpenny affair—and they dismiss me comme ça! Here, I mistake not, is the hand of Mr Todd. But I say no!—thirty-six times no! I will spend my own guineas, thirty-six hundred of them if need be, but I will get to the bottom of this matter!’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But how?’

Poirot calmed down a little.

‘D’abord,’ he said, ‘we will advertise in the papers. Let me see—yes—something like this: “If Eliza Dunn will communicate with this address, she will hear of something to her advantage.” Put it in all the papers you can think of, Hastings. Then I will make some little inquiries of my own. Go, go—all must be done as quickly as possible!’

I did not see him again until the evening, when he condescended to tell me what he had been doing.

‘I have made inquiries at the firm of Mr Todd. He was not absent on Wednesday, and he bears a good character—so much for him. Then Simpson, on Thursday he was ill and did not come to the bank, but he was there on Wednesday. He was moderately friendly with Davis. Nothing out of the common. There does not seem to be anything there. No. We must place our reliance on the advertisement.’

The advertisement duly appeared in all the principal daily papers. By Poirot’s orders it was to be continued every day for a week. His eagerness over this uninteresting matter of a defaulting cook was extraordinary, but I realized that he considered it a point of honour to persevere until he finally succeeded. Several extremely interesting cases were brought to him about this time, but he declined them all. Every morning he would rush at his letters, scrutinize them earnestly and then lay them down with a sigh.

But our patience was rewarded at last. On the Wednesday following Mrs Todd’s visit, our landlady informed us that a person of the name of Eliza Dunn had called.

‘Enfin!’ cried Poirot. ‘But make her mount then! At once. Immediately.’

Thus admonished, our landlady hurried out and returned a moment or two later, ushering in Miss Dunn. Our quarry was much as described: tall, stout, and eminently respectable.

‘I came in answer to the advertisement,’ she explained. ‘I thought there must be some muddle or other, and that perhaps you didn’t know I’d already got my legacy.’

Poirot was studying her attentively. He drew forward a chair with a flourish.

‘The truth of the matter is,’ he explained, ‘that your late mistress, Mrs Todd, was much concerned about you. She feared some accident might have befallen you.’

Eliza Dunn seemed very much surprised.

‘Didn’t she get my letter then?’

‘She got no word of any kind.’ He paused, and then said persuasively: ‘Recount to me the whole story, will you not?’

Eliza Dunn needed no encouragement. She plunged at once into a lengthy narrative.

‘I was just coming home on Wednesday night and had nearly got to the house, when a gentleman stopped me. A tall gentleman he was, with a beard and a big hat. “Miss Eliza Dunn?” he said. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve been inquiring for you at No. 88,” he said. “They told me I might meet you coming along here. Miss Dunn, I have come from Australia specially to find you. Do you happen to know the maiden name of your maternal grandmother?” “Jane Emmott,” I said. “Exactly,” he said. “Now, Miss Dunn, although you may never have heard of the fact, your grandmother had a great friend, Eliza Leech. This friend went to Australia where she married a very wealthy settler. Her two children died in infancy, and she inherited all her husband’s property. She died a few months ago, and by her will you inherit a house in this country and a considerable sum of money.”

‘You could have knocked me down with a feather,’ continued Miss Dunn. ‘For a minute, I was suspicious, and he must have seen it, for he smiled. “Quite right to be on your guard, Miss Dunn,” he said. “Here are my credentials.” He handed me a letter from some lawyers in Melbourne, Hurst and Crotchet, and a card. He was Mr Crotchet. “There are one or two conditions,” he said. “Our client was a little eccentric, you know. The bequest is conditional on your taking possession of the house (it is in Cumberland) before twelve o’clock tomorrow. The other condition is of no importance—it is merely a stipulation that you should not be in domestic service.” My face fell. “Oh, Mr Crotchet,” I said. “I’m a cook. Didn’t they tell you at the house?” “Dear, dear,” he said. “I had no idea of such a thing. I thought you might possibly be a companion or governess there. This is very unfortunate—very unfortunate indeed.”

‘ “Shall I have to lose all the money?” I said, anxious like. He thought for a minute or two. “There are always ways of getting round the law, Miss Dunn,” he said at last. “We as lawyers know that. The way out here is for you to have left your employment this afternoon.” “But my month?” I said. “My dear Miss Dunn,” he said with a smile. “You can leave an employer any minute by forfeiting a month’s wages. Your mistress will understand in view of the circumstances. The difficulty is time! It is imperative that you should catch the 11.05 from King’s Cross to the north. I can advance you ten pounds or so for the fare, and you can write a note at the station to your employer. I will take it to her myself and explain the whole circumstances.” I agreed, of course, and an hour later I was in the train, so flustered that I didn’t know whether I was on my head or heels. Indeed by the time I got to Carlisle, I was half inclined to think the whole thing was one of those confidence tricks you read about. But I went to the address he had given me—solicitors they were, and it was all right. A nice little house, and an income of three hundred a year. These lawyers knew very little, they’d just got a letter from a gentleman in London instructing them to hand over the house to me and £150 for the first six months. Mr Crotchet sent up my things to me, but there was no word from Missus. I supposed she was angry and grudged me my bit of luck. She kept back my box too, and sent my clothes in paper parcels. But there, of course if she never had my letter, she might think it a bit cool of me.’

Poirot had listened attentively to this long history. Now he nodded his head as though completely satisfied.

‘Thank you, mademoiselle. There had been, as you say, a little muddle. Permit me to recompense you for your trouble.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘You return to Cumberland immediately? A little word in your ear. Do not forget how to cook. It is always useful to have something to fall back upon in case things go wrong.’

‘Credulous,’ he murmured, as our visitor departed, ‘but perhaps not more than most of her class.’ His face grew grave. ‘Come, Hastings, there is no time to be lost. Get a taxi while I write a note to Japp.’

Poirot was waiting on the doorstep when I returned with the taxi.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked anxiously.

‘First, to despatch this note by special messenger.’

This was done, and re-entering the taxi Poirot gave the address to the driver.

‘Eighty-eight Prince Albert Road, Clapham.’

‘So we are going there?’

‘Mais oui. Though frankly I fear we shall be too late. Our bird will have flown, Hastings.’

‘Who is our bird?’

Poirot smiled.

‘The inconspicuous Mr Simpson.’

‘What?’ I exclaimed.

‘Oh, come now, Hastings, do not tell me that all is not clear to you now!’

‘The cook was got out of the way, I realize that,’ I said, slightly piqued. ‘But why? Why should Simpson wish to get her out of the house? Did she know something about him?’

‘Nothing whatever.’

‘Well, then—’

‘But he wanted something that she had.’

‘Money? The Australian legacy?’

‘No, my friend—something quite different.’ He paused a moment and then said gravely: ‘A battered tin trunk…’

I looked sideways at him. His statement seemed so fantastic that I suspected him of pulling my leg, but he was perfectly grave and serious.

‘Surely he could buy a trunk if he wanted one,’ I cried.

‘He did not want a new trunk. He wanted a trunk of pedigree. A trunk of assured respectability.’

‘Look here, Poirot,’ I cried, ‘this really is a bit thick. You’re pulling my leg.’

He looked at me.

‘You lack the brains and the imagination of Mr Simpson, Hastings. See here: On Wednesday evening, Simpson decoys away the cook. A printed card and a printed sheet of notepaper are simple matters to obtain, and he is willing to pay £150 and a year’s house rent to assure the success of his plan. Miss Dunn does not recognize him—the beard and the hat and the slight colonial accent completely deceive her. That is the end of Wednesday—except for the trifling fact that Simpson has helped himself to fifty thousand pounds’ worth of negotiable securities.’

‘Simpson—but it was Davis—’

‘If you will kindly permit me to continue, Hastings! Simpson knows that the theft will be discovered on Thursday afternoon. He does not go to the bank on Thursday, but he lies in wait for Davis when he comes out to lunch. Perhaps he admits the theft and tells Davis he will return the securities to him—anyhow he succeeds in getting Davis to come to Clapham with him. It is the maid’s day out, and Mrs Todd was at the sales, so there is no one in the house. When the theft is discovered and Davis is missing, the implication will be overwhelming. Davis is the thief! Mr Simpson will be perfectly safe, and can return to work on the morrow like the honest clerk they think him.’

‘And Davis?’

Poirot made an expressive gesture, and slowly shook his head.

‘It seems too cold-blooded to be believed, and yet what other explanation can there be, mon ami. The one difficulty for a murderer is the disposal of the body—and Simpson had planned that out beforehand. I was struck at once by the fact that although Eliza Dunn obviously meant to return that night when she went out (witness her remark about the stewed peaches) yet her trunk was all ready packed when they came for it. It was Simpson who sent word to Carter Paterson to call on Friday and it was Simpson who corded up the box on Thursday afternoon. What suspicion could possibly arise? A maid leaves and sends for her box, it is labelled and addressed ready in her name, probably to a railway station within easy reach of London. On Saturday afternoon, Simpson, in his Australian disguise, claims it, he affixes a new label and address and redespatches it somewhere else, again “to be left till called for”. When the authorities get suspicious, for excellent reasons, and open it, all that can be elicited will be that a bearded colonial despatched it from some junction near London. There will be nothing to connect it with 88 Prince Albert Road. Ah! Here we are.’

Poirot’s prognostications had been correct. Simpson had left days previously. But he was not to escape the consequences of his crime. By the aid of wireless, he was discovered on the Olympia, en route to America.

A tin trunk, addressed to Mr Henry Wintergreen, attracted the attention of railway officials at Glasgow. It was opened and found to contain the body of the unfortunate Davis.

Mrs Todd’s cheque for a guinea was never cashed. Instead Poirot had it framed and hung on the all of our sitting-room.

‘It is to me a little reminder, Hastings. Never to despise the trivial—the undignified. A disappearing domestic at one end—a cold-blooded murder at the other. To me, one of the most interesting of my cases.’