Poirot’s Early Cases

‘Well, I don’t know, sir. She’d want her things—even in those foreign places.’

‘Who came for the trunk—a man?’

‘It was Carter Paterson, sir.’

‘Did you pack it?’

‘No, sir, it was already packed and corded.’

‘Ah! That’s interesting. That shows that when she left the house on Wednesday, she had already determined not to return. You see that, do you not?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Annie looked slightly taken aback. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But it might still have been white slavers, mightn’t it, sir? she added wistfully.

‘Undoubtedly!’ said Poirot gravely. He went on: ‘Did you both occupy the same bedroom?’

‘No, sir, we had separate rooms.’

‘And had Eliza expressed any dissatisfaction with her present post to you at all? Were you both happy here?’

‘She’d never mentioned leaving. The place is all right—’ The girl hesitated.

‘Speak freely,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘I shall not tell your mistress.’

‘Well, of course, sir, she’s a caution, Missus is. But the food’s good. Plenty of it, and no stinting. Something hot for supper, good outings, and as much frying-fat as you like. And anyway, if Eliza did want to make a change, she’d never have gone off this way, I’m sure. She’d have stayed her month. Why, Missus could have a month’s wages out of her for doing this!’

‘And the work, it is not too hard?’

‘Well, she’s particular—always poking round in corners and looking for dust. And then there’s the lodger, or paying guest as he’s always called. But that’s only breakfast and dinner, same as Master. They’re out all day in the City.’

‘You like your master?’

‘He’s all right—very quiet and a bit on the stingy side.’

‘You can’t remember, I suppose, the last thing Eliza said before she went out?’

‘Yes, I can. “If there’s any stewed peaches over from the dining-room,” she says, “we’ll have them for supper, and a bit of bacon and some fried potatoes.” Mad over stewed peaches, she was. I shouldn’t wonder if they didn’t get her that way.’

‘Was Wednesday her regular day out?’

‘Yes, she had Wednesdays and I had Thursdays.’

Poirot asked a few more questions, then declared himself satisfied. Annie departed, and Mrs Todd hurried in, her face alight with curiosity. She had, I felt certain, bitterly resented her exclusion from the room during our conversation with Annie. Poirot, however, was careful to soothe her feelings tactfully.

‘It is difficult,’ he explained, ‘for a woman of exceptional intelligence such as yourself, madame, to bear patiently the roundabout methods we poor detectives are forced to use. To have patience with stupidity is difficult for the quick-witted.’

Having thus charmed away any little resentment on Mrs Todd’s part, he brought the conversation round to her husband and elicited the information that he worked with a firm in the City and would not be home until after six.

‘Doubtless he is very disturbed and worried by this unaccountable business, eh? It is not so?’

‘He’s never worried,’ declared Mrs Todd. ‘ “Well, well, get another, my dear.” That’s all he said! He’s so calm that it drives me to distraction sometimes. “An ungrateful woman,” he said. “We are well rid of her.”’

‘What about the other inmates of the house, madame?’

‘You mean Mr Simpson, our paying guest? Well, as long as he gets his breakfast and his evening meal all right, he doesn’t worry.’

‘What is his profession, madame?’

‘He works in a bank.’ She mentioned its name, and I started slightly, remembering my perusal of the Daily Blare.

‘A young man?’

‘Twenty-eight, I believe. Nice quiet young fellow.’

‘I should like to have a few words with him, and also with your husband, if I may. I will return for that purpose this evening. I venture to suggest that you should repose yourself a little, madame, you look fatigued.’

‘I should just think I am! First the worry about Eliza, and then I was at the sales practically all yesterday, and you know what that is, M. Poirot, and what with one thing and another and a lot to do in the house, because of course Annie can’t do it all—and very likely she’ll give notice anyway, being unsettled in this way—well, what with it all, I’m tired out!’

Poirot murmured sympathetically, and we took our leave.

‘It’s a curious coincidence,’ I said, ‘but that absconding clerk, Davis, was from the same bank as Simpson. Can there be any connection, do you think?’

Poirot smiled.

‘At the one end, a defaulting clerk, at the other a vanishing cook. It is hard to see any relation between the two, unless possibly Davis visited Simpson, fell in love with the cook, and persuaded her to accompany him on his flight!’

I laughed. But Poirot remained grave.

‘He might have done worse,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Remember, Hastings, if you are going into exile, a good cook may be of more comfort than a pretty face!’ He paused for a moment and then went on. ‘It is a curious case, full of contradictory features. I am interested—yes, I am distinctly interested.’

II

That evening we returned to 88 Prince Albert Road and interviewed both Todd and Simpson. The former was a melancholy lantern-jawed man of forty-odd.

‘Oh! Yes, yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Eliza. Yes. A good cook, I believe. And economical. I make a strong point of economy.’

‘Can you imagine any reason for her leaving you so suddenly?’

‘Oh, well,’ said Mr Todd vaguely. ‘Servants, you know. My wife worries too much. Worn out from always worrying. The whole problem’s quite simple really. “Get another, my dear,” I say. “Get another.” That’s all there is to it. No good crying over spilt milk.’

Mr Simpson was equally unhelpful. He was a quiet inconspicuous young man with spectacles.

‘I must have seen her, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Elderly woman, wasn’t she? Of course, it’s the other one I see always, Annie. Nice girl. Very obliging.’

‘Were those two on good terms with each other?’

Mr Simpson said he couldn’t say, he was sure. He supposed so.

‘Well, we get nothing of interest there, mon ami,’ said Poirot as we left the house. Our departure had been delayed by a burst of vociferous repetition from Mrs Todd, who repeated everything she had said that morning at rather greater length.