Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘“Husband and wife have occupied separate rooms since last winter.”’

‘Aha!’ cried Poirot. ‘And now we are in mid June! All is solved!’

I stared at him.

‘You have no moneys in the bank of Davenheim and Salmon, mon ami?’

‘No,’ I said wondering. ‘Why?’

‘Because I should advise you to withdraw it – before it is too late.’

‘Why, what do you expect?’

‘I expect a big smash in a few days – perhaps sooner. Which reminds me, we will return the compliment of a dépêche to Japp. A pencil, I pray you, and a form. Voilà! “Advise you to withdraw any money deposited with firm in question.” That will intrigue him, the good Japp! His eyes will open wide – wide! He will not comprehend in the slightest – until tomorrow, or the next day!’

I remained sceptical, but the morrow forced me to render tribute to my friend’s remarkable powers. In every paper was a huge headline telling of the sensational failure of the Davenheim bank. The disappearance of the famous financier took on a totally different aspect in the light of the revelation of the financial affairs of the bank.

Before we were half-way through breakfast, the door flew open and Japp rushed in. In his left hand was a paper; in his right was Poirot’s telegram, which he banged down on the table in front of my friend.

‘How did you know, Monsieur Poirot? How the blazes could you know?’

Poirot smiled placidly at him. ‘Ah, mon ami, after your wire, it was a certainty! From the commencement, see you, it struck me that the safe burglary was somewhat remarkable. Jewels, ready money, bearer bonds – all so conveniently arranged for – whom? Well, the good Monsieur Davenheim was of those who “look after Number One” as your saying goes! It seemed almost certain that it was arranged for – himself! Then his passion of late years for buying jewellery! How simple! The funds he embezzled, he converted into jewels, very likely replacing them in turn with paste duplicates, and so he put away in a safe place, under another name, a considerable fortune to be enjoyed all in good time when everyone has been thrown off the track. His arrangements completed, he makes an appointment with Mr Lowen (who has been imprudent enough in the past to cross the great man once or twice), drills a hole in the safe, leaves orders that the guest is to be shown into the study, and walks out of the house – where?’ Poirot stopped, and stretched out his hand for another boiled egg. He frowned. ‘It is really insupportable,’ he murmured, ‘that every hen lays an egg of a different size! What symmetry can there be on the breakfast table? At least they should sort them in dozens at the shop!’

‘Never mind the eggs,’ said Japp impatiently. ‘Let ’em lay ’em square if they like. Tell us where our customer went to when he left The Cedars – that is, if you know!’

‘Eh bien, he went to his hiding place. Ah, this Monsieur Davenheim, there may be some malformation in his grey cells, but they are of the first quality!’

‘Do you know where he is hiding?’

‘Certainly! It is most ingenious.’

‘For the Lord’s sake, tell us, then!’

Poirot gently collected every fragment of shell from his plate, placed them in the egg-cup, and reversed the empty egg-shell on top of them. This little operation concluded, he smiled on the neat effect, and then beamed affectionately on us both.

‘Come, my friends, you are men of intelligence. Ask yourself the question I asked myself. “If I were this man, where should I hide?” Hastings, what do you say?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m rather inclined to think I’d not do a bolt at all. I’d stay in London – in the heart of things, travel by tubes and buses; ten to one I’d never be recognized. There’s safety in a crowd.’

Poirot turned inquiringly to Japp.

‘I don’t agree. Get clear away at once – that’s the only chance. I would have had plenty of time to prepare things beforehand. I’d have a yacht waiting, with steam up, and I’d be off to one of the most out-of-the-way corners of the world before the hue and cry began!’

We both looked at Poirot. ‘What do you say, monsieur?’

For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted across his face.

‘My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should hide? In a prison!’

‘What?’

‘You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison, so you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless I think if you took her up to Bow Street and confronted her with the man Billy Kellett she would recognize him! In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived.’

‘Billy Kellett? But he’s known to the police!’

‘Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn – he was creating the character of Billy Kellett, “doing three months”, so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune, as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only –’

‘Yes?’

‘Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy – it invites detection! He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He went to the boathouse, donned his “tramp” clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!’

‘It’s impossible,’ murmured Japp.

‘Ask Madame,’ said my friend, smiling.

The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He opened it and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow puckered.

‘Ah, sacré! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre Japp? Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child – mille tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?’

5 The Plymouth Express (#ulink_d8c050ac-45f6-5246-ab4b-8043ae50d3ec)

‘The Plymouth Express’ was first published as ‘The Mystery of the Plymouth Express’ in The Sketch, 4 April 1923.

Alec Simpson, RN, stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor stopped him.

‘No – leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.

Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: ‘Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.’ Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.

Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!

He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.

At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavoured to shove it under the opposite seat – without success. Some obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out half-way into the carriage.

‘Why the devil won’t it go in?’ he muttered, and hauling it out completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat …

A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication cord.

‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘you have, I know, been deeply interested in this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.’

I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to the point.