Poirot Investigates (Hercule Poirot 3)

“I thought perhaps that I might ask Mr. Lavington to call upon you. I would tell him that you were empowered by me to discuss the matter. Perhaps you could reduce his demands.”

“What sum does he mention?”

“Twenty thousand pounds—an impossibility. I doubt if I could raise a thousand, even.”

“You might perhaps borrow the money on the prospect of your approaching marriage—but I doubt if you could get hold of half that sum. Besides—eh bien, it is repungnant to me that you should pay! No, the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot shall defeat your enemies! Send me this Mr. Lavington. Is he likely to bring the letter with him?”

The girl shook her head.

“I do not think so. He is very cautious.”

“I suppose there is no doubt that he really has it?”

“He showed it to me when I went to his house.”

“You went to his house? That was very imprudent, milady.”

“Was it? I was so desperate. I hoped my entreaties might move him.”

“Oh, là là! The Lavingtons of this world are not moved by entreaties! He would welcome them as showing how much importance you attached to the document. Where does he live, this fine gentleman?”

“At Buona Vista, Wimbledon. I went there after dark—” Poirot groaned. “I declared that I would inform the police in the end, but he only laughed in a horrid, sneering manner. ‘By all means, my dear Lady Millicent, do so if you wish,’ he said.”

“Yes, it is hardly an affair for the police,” murmured Poirot.

“ ‘But I think you will be wiser than that,’ he continued. ‘See, here is your letter—in this little Chinese puzzle box!’ He held it so that I could see. I tried to snatch at it, but he was too quick for me. With a horrid smile he folded it up and replaced it in the little wooden box. ‘It will be quite safe here, I assure you,’ he said, ‘and the box itself lives in such a clever place that you would never find it.’ My eyes turned to the small wall safe, and he shook his head and laughed. ‘I have a better safe than that,’ he said. Oh, he was odious! M. Poirot, do you think that you can help me?”

“Have faith in Papa Poirot. I will find a way.”

These reassurances were all very well, I thought, as Poirot gallantly ushered his fair client down the stairs, but it seemed to me that we had a tough nut to crack. I said as much to Poirot when he returned. He nodded ruefully.

“Yes—the solution does not leap to the eye. He has the whip hand, this M. Lavington. For the moment I do not see how we are to circumvent him.”

II

Mr. Lavington duly called upon us that afternoon. Lady Millicent had spoken truly when she described him as an odious man. I felt a positive tingling in the end of my boot, so keen was I to kick him down the stairs. He was blustering and overbearing in manner, laughed Poirot’s gentle suggestions to scorn, and generally showed himself as master of the situation. I could not help feeling that Poirot was hardly appearing at his best. He looked discouraged and crestfallen.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Lavington, as he took up his hat, “we don’t seem to be getting much further. The case stands like this: I’ll let the Lady Millicent off cheap, as she is such a charming young lady.” He leered odiously. “We’ll say eighteen thousand. I’m off to Paris today—a little piece of business to attend to over there. I shall be back on Tuesday. Unless the money is paid by Tuesday evening, the letter goes to the Duke. Don’t tell me Lady Millicent can’t raise the money. Some of her gentlemen friends would be only too willing to oblige such a pretty woman with a loan—if she goes the right way about it.”

My face flushed, and I took a step forward, but Lavington had wheeled out of the room as he finished his sentence.

“My God!” I cried. “Something has got to be done. You seem to be taking this lying down, Poirot.”

“You have an excellent heart, my friend—but your grey cells are in a deplorable condition. I have no wish to impress Mr. Lavington with my capabilities. The more pusillanimous he thinks me, the better.”

“Why?”

“It is curious,” murmured Poirot reminiscently, “that I should have uttered a wish to work against the law just before Lady Millicent arrived!”

“You are going to burgle his house while he is away?” I gasped.

“Sometimes, Hastings, your mental processes are amazingly quick.”

“Suppose he takes the letter with him?”

Poirot shook his head.

“That is very unlikely. He has evidently a hiding place in his house that he fancies to be pretty impregnable.”

“When do we—er—do the deed?”

“Tomorrow night. We will start from here about eleven o’clock.”

III

At the time appointed I was ready to set off. I had donned a dark suit, and a soft dark hat. Poirot beamed kindly on me.

“You have dressed the part, I see,” he observed. “Come let us take the underground to Wimbledon.”

“Aren’t we going to take anything with us? Tools to break in with?”

“My dear Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not adopt such crude methods.”

I retired, snubbed, but my curiosity was alert.

It was just on midnight that we entered the small suburban garden of Buona Vista. The house was dark and silent. Poirot went straight to a window at the back of the house, raised the sash noiselessly and bade me enter.

“How did you know this window would be open?” I whispered, for really it seemed uncanny.

“Because I sawed through the catch this morning.”

“What?”

“But yes, it was most simple. I called, presented a fictitious card and one of Inspector Japp’s official ones. I said I had been sent, recommended by Scotland Yard, to attend to some burglar-proof fastenings that Mr. Lavington wanted fixed while he was away. The housekeeper welcomed me with enthusiasm. It seems they have had two attempted burglaries here lately—evidently our little idea has occurred to other clients of Mr. Lavington’s—with nothing of value taken. I examined all the windows, made my little arrangement, forbade the servants to touch the windows until tomorrow, as they were electrically connected up, and withdrew

gracefully.”

“Really, Poirot, you are wonderful.”

“Mon ami, it was of the simplest. Now, to work! The servants sleep at the top of the house, so we will run little risk of disturbing them.”

“I presume the safe is built into the wall somewhere?”

“Safe? Fiddlesticks! There is no safe. Mr. Lavington is an intelligent man. You will see, he will have devised a hiding place much more intelligent than a safe. A safe is the first thing everyone looks for.”

Whereupon we began a systematic search of the entire place. But after several hours” ransacking of the house, our search had been unavailing. I saw symptoms of anger gathering on Poirot’s face.

“Ah, sapristi, is Hercule Poirot to be beaten? Never! Let us be calm. Let us reflect. Let us reason. Let us—enfin!—employ our little grey cells!”

He paused for some moments, bending his brows in concentration; then the green light I knew so well stole into his eyes.

“I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!”

“The kitchen,” I cried. “But that’s impossible. The servants!”

“Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!”

I followed him, completely sceptical, and watched whilst he dived into bread bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas-oven. In the end, tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there, and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search, noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.

To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coal bin, to the utter ruin of h

is 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.