“And what are you going to do?”
“As we have _carte blanche_, I shall expend threepence in ringing up the Ritz—where you may have noticed our Count is staying. After that, as my feet are a little damp, and I have sneezed twice, I shall return to my rooms and make myself a _tisano_ over the spirit lamp!”
* * * * *
I did not see Poirot again until the following morning. I found him placidly finishing his breakfast.
“Well?” I inquired eagerly. “What has happened?”
“Nothing.”
“But Japp?”
“I have not seen him.”
“The Count?”
“He left the Ritz the day before yesterday.”
“The day of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Then that settles it! Rupert Carrington is cleared.”
“Because the Count de la Rochefour has left the Ritz? You go too fast, my friend.”
“Anyway, he must be followed, arrested! But what could be his motive?”
“One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry is a very good motive for anyone. No, the question to my mind is: why kill her? Why not simply steal the jewels? She would not prosecute.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is a woman, _mon ami_. She once loved this man. Therefore she would suffer her loss in silence. And the Count, who is an extremely good psychologist where women are concerned,—hence his successes,—would know that perfectly well! On the other hand, if Rupert Carrington killed her, why take the jewels, which would incriminate him fatally?”
“As a blind.”
“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his knock.”
The Inspector was beaming good-humoredly.
“Morning, Poirot. Only just got back. I’ve done some good work! And you?”
“Me, I have arranged my ideas,” replied Poirot placidly.
Japp laughed heartily.
“Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to me. “That wont do for us young folk,” he said aloud.
“_Quel dommage?_” Poirot inquired.
“Well, do you want to hear what I’ve done?”
“You permit me to make a guess? You have found the knife with which the crime was committed by the side of the line between Weston and Taunton, and you have interviewed the paper-boy who spoke to Mrs. Carrington at Weston!”
* * * * *
Japp’s jaw fell. “How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was those almighty ‘little gray cells’ of yours!”
“I am glad you admit for once that they are _all mighty_! Tell me, did she give the paper-boy a shilling for himself?”
“No, it was half a crown!” Japp recovered his temper and grinned. “Pretty extravagant, these rich Americans!”
“And in consequence the boy did not forget her?”
“Not he. Half-crowns don’t come his way every day. She hailed him and bought two magazines. One had a picture of a girl in blue on the cover. ‘That’ll match me,’ she said. Oh! he remembered her perfectly. Well, that was enough for me. By the doctor’s evidence, the crime _must_ have been committed before Taunton. I guessed they’d throw the knife away at once, and I walked down the line looking for it; and sure enough, there it was. I made inquiries at Taunton about our man, but of course it’s a big station, and it wasn’t likely they’d notice him. He probably got back to London by a later train.”
Poirot nodded. “Very likely.”
“But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of the regular lot. Who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know—except that he was a short man.”
Japp stared. “Well, you’re right there. He’s short enough. It was Red Narky.”
“Who on earth is Red Narky?” I asked.
“A particularly sharp jewel-thief, sir. And not one to stick at murder. Usually works with a woman—Gracie Kidd; but she doesn’t seem to be in it this time—unless she’s got off to Holland with the rest of the swag.”
“You’ve arrested Narky?”
“Sure thing. But mind you, it’s the other man we want—the man who went down with Mrs. Carrington in the train. He was the one who planned the job, right enough. But Narky wont squeal on a pal.”
I noticed that Poirot’s eyes had become very green.
“I think,” he said gently, “that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all right.”
“One of your little ideas, eh?” Japp eyed Poirot sharply. “Wonderful how you manage to deliver the goods sometimes, at your age and all. Devil’s own luck, of course.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” murmured my friend. “Hastings, my hat. And the brush. So! My galoshes if it still rains! We must not undo the good work of that _tisano_. Au revoir, Japp!”
“Good luck to you, Poirot.”
Poirot hailed the first taxi we met, and directed the driver to Park Lane.
* * * * *
When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he made a request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs. We went up to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat bedroom.
Poirot’s eyes roved round the room and fastened themselves on a small black trunk. He knelt in front of it, scrutinized the labels on it, and took a small twist of wire from his pocket.
“Ask Mr. Halliday if he will be so kind as to mount to me here,” he said over his shoulder to the footman.
(It is suggested that the reader pause in his perusal of the story at this point, make his own solution of the mystery—and then see how close he comes to that of the author.—The Editors.)
The man departed, and Poirot gently coaxed the lock of the trunk with a practiced hand. In a few minutes the lock gave, and he raised the lid of the trunk. Swiftly he began rummaging among the clothes it contained, flinging them out on the floor.
There was a heavy step on the stairs, and Halliday entered the room.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.
“I was looking, monsieur, for _this_.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk a coat and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox fur.
“What are you doing with my trunk?” I turned to see that the maid, Jane Mason, had just entered the room.
“If you will just shut the door, Hastings. Thank you. Yes, and stand with your back against it. Now, Mr. Halliday, let me introduce you to Grace Kidd, otherwise Jane Mason, who will shortly rejoin her accomplice, Red Narky, under the kind escort of Japp.”
* * * * *
“It was of the most simple.” Poirot waved a deprecating hand, then helped himself to more caviare. It is not every day that one lunches with a millionaire.
“It was the maid’s insistence on the clothes that her mistress was wearing that first struck me. Why was she so anxious that our attention should be directed to them? I reflected that we had only the maid’s word for the mysterious man in the carriage at Bristol. As far as the doctor’s evidence went, Mrs. Carrington might easily have been murdered _before_ reaching Bristol. But if so, then the maid must be an accomplice. And if she were an accomplice, she would not wish this point to rest on her evidence alone. The clothes Mrs. Carrington was wearing were of a striking nature. A maid usually has a good deal of choice as to what her mistress shall wear. Now if, after Bristol, anyone saw a lady in a bright blue coat and skirt, and a fur toque, he will be quite ready to swear he has seen Mrs. Carrington.
“I began to reconstruct. The maid would provide herself with duplicate clothes. She and her accomplice chloroform and stab Mrs. Carrington between London and Bristol, probably taking advantage of a tunnel. Her body is rolled under the seat; the maid takes her place. At Weston she must make herself noticed. How? In all probability, a newspaper-boy will be selected. She will insure his remembering her by giving him a large tip. She also drew his attention to the color of her dress by a remark about one of the magazines. After leaving Weston, she throws the knife out of the window to mark the place where the crime presumably occurred, and changes her clothes, or buttons a long mackintosh over them. At Taunton she leaves the train and returns to Bristol as soon as possible, where her accomplice has duly left the luggage in the cloak-room. He hands over the ticket and himself returns to London. She waits on the platform, carrying out her rôle, goes to a hotel for the night and returns to town in the morning exactly as she said.
“When Japp returned from his expedition, he confirmed all my deductions. He also told me that a well-known crook was passing the jewels. I knew that whoever it was would be the exact opposite of the man Jane Mason described. When I heard that it was Red Narky, who always worked with Gracie Kidd—well, I knew just where to find her.”
“And the Count?”
“The more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that he had nothing to do with it. That gentleman is much too careful of his own skin to risk murder. It would be out of keeping with his character.”
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Halliday. “I owe you a big debt. And the check I write after lunch wont go near to settling it.”
Poirot smiled modestly, and murmured to me: “The good Japp, he shall get the official credit, all right, but though he has got his Gracie Kidd, I think that I, as the Americans say, have got his goat!”