[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.]
Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established in an armchair by the fire. He greeted me with much affection.
“_Mon ami Hastings!_ But how glad I am to see you! Veritably I have for you a great affection! And you have enjoyed yourself? You have run to and fro with the good Japp? You have interrogated and investigated to your heart’s content?”
“Poirot,” I cried, “the thing’s a dark mystery! It will never be solved.”
“It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it.”
“No, indeed. It’s a hard nut to crack.”
“Oh, as far as that goes, me, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A veritable squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr. Harrington Pace.”
“You know? How did you find out?”
“Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth..... See here, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in order. Mr. Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will doubtless pass to his nephew—point number one. His nephew is known to be desperately hard up—point number two. His nephew is also known to be—shall we say a man of loose moral fiber? Point number three!”
“But Roger Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to London.”
“_Précisément!_ And therefore, as Mr. Havering left Elmer’s Dale at six-fifteen, and since Mr. Pace cannot have been killed before he left (or the doctor would have spotted the time of the crime as being given wrongly when he examined the body), we conclude, quite rightly, that Mr. Havering did _not_ shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs. Havering, Hastings.”
“Impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired.”
“Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared.”
“She will be found.”
“I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper—don’t you think so? It struck me at once.”
“She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time.”
“And what was her part?”
“Well—I presume to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.”
“Oh, no, that was not her part. Her part was what you have just mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs. Havering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, _mon ami_, because she does not exist! ‘There’s no sech person,’ as your so great Shakespeare says.”
“It was Dickens,” I murmured, smiling. “But what do you mean, Poirot?”
“I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage, that you and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim, middle-aged figure in black with a faint, subdued voice, and finally that neither you, nor Japp, nor the local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever saw Mrs. Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time. It was a child’s play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, slips on a bright jumper and a hat with black curls attached which she jams down over the gray transformation. A few deft touches, and the make-up is removed; a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes down with her clear ringing voice.”
“But the revolver that was found at Ealing? Mrs. Havering could not have placed it there?”
“No, that was Roger Havering’s job—but it was a mistake on their part. It put me on the right track. A man who has committed a murder with a revolver which he found on the spot would fling it away at once; he would not carry it up to London with him. No, the motive was clear; the criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Derbyshire; they were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter’s Lodge. Of course, the revolver found at Ealing was not the one with which Mr. Pace was shot. Roger Havering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly out to Ealing by the District Railway, a matter of about twenty minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found and so back to town. That charming creature his wife, quietly shoots Mr. Pace after dinner—you remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point, that! She reloads the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with her desperate little comedy.”
“It’s incredible,” I murmured, fascinated. “And yet—”
“And yet it is true. _Bien sûr_, my friend, it is true! But to bring that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must do what he can—I have written him fully; but I very much fear, Hastings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to Fate—or _le bon Dieu_—whichever you prefer.”
“The wicked flourish like a green bay tree,” I reminded him.
“But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, _croyez moi_!”
* * * * *
Poirot’s forebodings were confirmed. Japp, though convinced of the truth of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence to insure a conviction. Mr. Pace’s huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers. Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I read in the paper that the Hon. Roger and Mrs. Havering were among those killed in the crashing of the Air Mail to Paris, I knew that Justice was satisfied.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June, 1924 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.]