“Obviously Mrs. Vanderlyn. She had been back there once for a book. She could have come back for another book, or a handbag, or a dropped handkerchief—one of a dozen feminine excuses. She arranges with her maid to scream and get Carlile away from the study. Then she slips in and out by the windows as you said.”
“You forget it could not have been Mrs. Vanderlyn. Carlile heard her call the maid from upstairs while he was talking to the girl.”
Lord Mayfield bit his lip.
“True. I forgot that.” He looked throughly annoyed.
“You see,” said Poirot gently. “We progress. We have first the simple explanation of a thief who comes from outside and makes off with the booty. A very convenient theory as I said at the time, too convenient to be readily accepted. We have disposed of that. Then we come to the theory of the foreign agent, Mrs. Vanderlyn, and that again seems to fit together beautifully up to a certain point. But now it looks as though that, too, was too easy—too convenient—to be accepted.”
“You’d wash Mrs. Vanderlyn out of it altogether?”
“It was not Mrs. Vanderlyn in the drawing room. It may have been an ally of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s who committed the theft, but it is just possible that it was committed by another person altogether. If so, we have to consider the question of motive.”
“Isn’t this rather far-fetched, M. Poirot?”
“I do not think so. Now what motives could there be? There is the motive of money. The papers may have been stolen with the object of turning them into cash. That is the simplest motive to consider. But the motive might possibly be something quite different.”
“Such as—”
Poirot said slowly:
“It might have been done definitely with the idea of damaging someone.”
“Who?”
“Possibly Mr. Carlile. He would be the obvious suspect. But there might be more to it than that. The men who control the destiny of a country, Lord Mayfield, are particularly vulnerable to displays of popular feeling.”
“Meaning that the theft was aimed at damaging me?”
Poirot nodded.
“I think I am correct in saying, Lord Mayfield, that about five years ago you passed through a somewhat trying time. You were suspected of friendship with a European Power at that time bitterly unpopular with the electorate of this country.”
“Quite true, M. Poirot.”
“A statesman in these days has a difficult task. He has to pursue the policy he deems advantageous to his country, but he has at the same time to recognize the force of popular feeling. Popu
lar feeling is very often sentimental, muddleheaded, and eminently unsound, but it cannot be disregarded for all that.”
“How well you express it! That is exactly the curse of a politician’s life. He has to bow to the country’s feeling, however dangerous and foolhardy he knows it to be.”
“That was your dilemma, I think. There were rumours that you had concluded an agreement with the country in question. This country and the newspapers were up in arms about it. Fortunately the Prime Minister was able categorically to deny the story, and you repudiated it, though still making no secret of the way your sympathies lay.”
“All this is quite true, M. Poirot, but why rake up past history?”
“Because I consider it possible that an enemy, disappointed in the way you surmounted that crisis, might endeavour to stage a further dilemma. You soon regained public confidence. Those particular circumstances have passed away, you are now, deservedly, one of the most popular figures in political life. You are spoken of freely as the next Prime Minister when Mr. Hunberly retires.”
“You think this is an attempt to discredit me? Nonsense!”
“Tout de même, Lord Mayfield, it would not look well if it were known that the plans of Britain’s new bomber had been stolen during a weekend when a certain very charming lady had been your guest. Little hints in the newspapers as to your relationship with that lady would create a feeling of distrust in you.”
“Such a thing could not really be taken seriously.”
“My dear Lord Mayfield, you know perfectly well it could! It takes so little to undermine public confidence in a man.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Lord Mayfield. He looked suddenly very worried. “God! how desperately complicated this business is becoming. Do you really think—but it’s impossible—impossible.”
“You know of nobody who is—jealous of you?”