Poirot reflected.
'After you had signed the second time, what did Mr Marsh do? Do you know?'
'Went out to the village to pay tradesmen's books.'
That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk.
'Is that your master's writing?'
I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied: 'Yes, sir, it is.'
'He's lying,' I thought. 'But why?'
'Has your master let the house? - have there been any strangers in it during the last three years?'
'No, sir.'
'No visitors?'
'Only Miss Violet.'
'No strangers of any kind been inside this room?'
'No, sir.'
'You forget the workmen, Jim,' his wife reminded him.
'Workmen?' Poirot wheeled round on her. 'What workmen?'
The woman explained that about two years and a half ago workmen had been in the house to do certain repairs. She was quite vague as to what the repairs were. Her view seemed to be that the whole thing was a fad of her master's and quite unnecessary. Part of the time the workmen had been in the study, but what they had done there she could not say, as her master had not let either of them into the room whilst the work was in progress. Unfortunately, they could not remember the name of the firm employed, beyond the fact that it was a Plymouth one.
'We progress, Hastings,' said Poirot, rubbing his hands as the Bakers left the room. 'Clearly he made a second will and then had workmen from Plymouth in to make a suitable hiding-place. Instead of wasting time taking up the floor and tapping the walls, we will go to Plymouth.'
With a little trouble, we were able to get the information we wanted.
After one or two essays we found the firm employed by Mr Marsh.
Their employees had all been with them many years, and it was easy to find the two men who had worked under Mr Marsh's orders.
They remembered the job perfectly. Amongst various other minor jobs, they had taken up one of the bricks of the old-fashioned fireplace, made a cavity beneath, and so cut the brick that it was impossible to see the join. By pressing on the second brick from the end, the whole thing was raised. It had been quite a complicated piece of work, and the old gentleman had been very fussy about it.
Our informant was a man called Coghan, a big, gaunt man with a grizzled moustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits, and, locking the study door, proceeded to put our newly acquired knowledge into effect. It was impossible to see any sign on the bricks, but when we pressed in the manner indicated, a deep cavity was at once disclosed.
Eagerly Poirot plunged in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from complacent elation to consternation. All he held was a charred fragment of stiff paper. But for it, the cavity was empty.
'Sacré!' cried Poirot angrily. 'Someone has been before us.'
We examined the scrap of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment of what we sought. A portion of Baker's signature remained, but no indication of what the terms of the will had been.
Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been comical if we had not been so overcome. 'I understand it not,' he growled. 'Who destroyed this? And what was their object?'
'The Bakers?' I suggested.
'Pourquoi? Neither will makes any provision for them, and they are more likely to be kept on with Miss Marsh than if the place became the property of a hospital. How could it be to anyone's advantage to destroy the will? The hospitals benefit - yes; but one cannot suspect institutions.'
'Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself,' I suggested.
Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care.
'That may be,' he admitted. 'One of your more sensible observations, Hastings. Well, we can do no more here. We have done all that mortal man can do. We have successfully pitted our wits against the late Andrew Marsh's; but, unfortunately, his niece is no better off for our success.'
By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a train to London, though not the principal express. Poirot was sad and dissatisfied. For my part, I was tired and dozed in a corner.
Suddenly, as we were just moving out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a piercing squeal.
'Vite, Hastings! Awake and jump! But jump I say!'
Before I knew where I was we were standing on the platform, bareheaded and minus our valises, whilst the train disappeared into the night. I was furious. But Poirot paid no attention.
'Imbecile that I have been!' he cried. 'Triple imbecile! Not again will I vaunt my little grey cells!'
'That's a good job at any rate,' I said grumpily. 'But what is this all about?'
As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely no attention to me.
'The tradesmen's books - I have left them entirely out of account!
Yes, but where? Where? Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must return at once.'
Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter, and there Poirot hired a car. We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in the small hours of the morning. I pass over the bewilderment of the Bakers when we had at last aroused them. Paying no attention to anybody, Poirot strode at once to the study.
'I have been, not a triple imbecile, but thirty-six times one, my friend,' he deigned to remark. 'Now, behold!'
Going straight to the desk he drew out the key, and detached the envelope from it. I stared at him stupidly. How could he possibly hope to find a big will-form in that tiny envelope? With great care he cut open the envelope, laying it out flat. Then he lighted the fire and held the plain inside surface of the envelope to the flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear.
'Look, mon ami!' cried Poirot in triumph.
I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating briefly that he left everything to his niece, Violet Marsh. It was dated March 25, 12.30 P.M., and witnessed by Albert Pike, confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman.
'But is it legal?' I gasped.
'As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the testator is clear, and the beneficiary is his only living relation. But the cleverness of him! He foresaw every step that a searcher would take - that I, miserable imbecile, took. He gets two will-forms, makes the servants sign twice, then sallies out with his will written on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain-pen containing his little ink mixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his own signature, then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles to himself. If his niece sees through his little ruse, she will have justified her choice of life and elaborate education, and be thoroughly welcome to his money.'
'She didn't see through it, did she?' I said slowly. 'It seems rather unfair. The old man really won.'
'But no, Hastings. It is your wits that go astray. Miss Marsh proved the astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher education for women by at once putting the matter in my hands. Always employ the expert. She has amply proved her right to the money.'
I wonder - I very much wonder - what old Andrew Marsh would have thought!
Partners in Crime *1929*
1. A FAIRY IN THE FLAT
Mrs. Thomas Beresford shifted her position on the divan and looked gloomily out of the window of the flat. The prospect was not an extended one, consisting solely of a small block of flats on the other side of the road. Mrs. Beresford sighed and then yawned.
"I wish," she said, "something would happen."
Her husband looked up reprovingly.
"Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me."
Tuppence sighed and closed her eyes dreamily.
"So Tommy and Tuppence were married," she chanted, "and lived happily ever afterwards. And six years later they were still livin
g together happily ever afterwards. It is extraordinary," she said, "how different everything always is from what you think it is going to be."
"A very profound statement, Tuppence. But not original. Eminent poets and still more eminent divines have said it before-and, if you will excuse me saying so, have said it better."
"Six years ago," continued Tuppence, "I would have sworn that with sufficient money to buy things with, and with you for a husband, all life would have been one grand sweet song, as one of the poets you seem to know so much about puts it."
"Is it me or the money that palls upon you?" inquired Tommy coldly.
"Palls isn't exactly the word," said Tuppence kindly. "I'm used to my blessings, that's all. Just as one never thinks what a boon it is to be able to breathe through one's nose until one has a cold in the head."
"Shall I neglect you a little?" suggested Tommy. "Take other women about to night clubs. That sort of thing."
"Useless," said Tuppence. "You would only meet me there with other men. And I should know perfectly well that you didn't care for the other women, whereas you would never be quite sure that I didn't care for the other men. Women are so much more thorough."
"It's only in modesty that men score top marks," murmured her husband. "But what is the matter with you, Tuppence? Why this yearning discontent?"
"I don't know. I want things to happen. Exciting things. Wouldn't you like to go chasing German spies again, Tommy? Think of the wild days of peril we went through once. Of course I know you're more or less in the Secret Service now, but it's pure office work."
"You mean you'd like them to send me into darkest Russia disguised as a Bolshevik bootlegger, or something of that "That wouldn't be any good," said Tuppence. "They wouldn't let me go with you and I'm the person who wants something to do so badly.
Something to do. That is what I keep saying all day long."
"Woman's sphere," suggested Tommy waving his hand.
"Twenty minutes' work after breakfast every morning keeps the flat going to perfection. You have nothing to complain of, have you?"
"Your housekeeping is so perfect, Tuppence, as to be almost monotonous."
"I do like gratitude," said Tuppence.
"You, of course, have got your work," she continued, "but tell me, Tommy, don't you ever have a secret yearning for excitement, for things to happen?"
"No," said Tommy, "at least I don't think so. It is all very well to want things to happen-they might not be pleasant things."
"How prudent men are," sighed Tuppence. "Don't you ever have a wild secret yearning for romance-adventure- life?"
"What have you been reading, Tuppence?" asked Tommy.
"Think how exciting it would be," went on Tuppence, "if we heard a wild rapping at the door and went to open it and in staggered a dead man."
"If he was dead he couldn't stagger," said Tommy critically.
"You know what I mean," said Tuppence. "They always stagger in just before they die and fall at your feet just gasping out a few enigmatic words. 'The Spotted Leopard' or something like that."
"I advise a course of Schopenhauer or Emmanuel Kant," said Tommy.
"That sort of thing would be good for you," said Tuppence. "You are getting fat and comfortable."
"I am not," said Tommy indignantly. "Anyway, you do slimming exercises yourself."
"Everybody does," said Tuppence. "When I said you were getting fat I was really speaking metaphorically, you are getting prosperous and sleek and comfortable."
"I don't know what has come over you," said her husband.
"The spirit of adventure," murmured Tuppence. "It is better than a longing for romance anyway. I have that sometimes, too. I think of meeting a man, a really handsome man-"
"You have met me," said Tommy. "Isn't that enough for you?"
"A brown lean man, terrifically strong, the kind of man who can ride anything and lassoos wild horses-"
"Complete with sheepskin trousers and a cowboy hat," interpolated Tommy sarcastically.
"-and has lived in the Wilds," continued Tuppence.
"I should like him to fall simply madly in love with me. I should, of course, rebuff him virtuously and be true to my marriage vows but my heart would secretly go out to him."
"Well," said Tommy, "I often wish that I may meet a really beautiful girl.
A girl with corn-colored hair who will fall desperately in love with me.
Only I don't think I rebuff her-in fact I am quite sure I don't."
"That," said Tuppence, "is naughty temper."
"What," said Tommy, "is really the matter with you, Tuppence? You have never talked like this before."
"No, but I have been boiling up inside for a long time," said Tuppence.
"You see it is very dangerous to have everything you want-including enough money to buy things. Of course there are always hats."
"You have got about forty hats already," said Tommy "and they all look alike."
"Hats are like that," said Tuppence. "They are not really alike. There are nuances in them. I saw rather a nice one in Violette's this morning."
"If you haven't anything better to do than going on buying hats you don't need-"
"That's it," said Tuppence. "That's exactly it. If I had something better to do. I suppose I ought to take up good works. Oh, Tommy, I do wish something exciting would happen. I feel-I really do feel it would be good for us. If we could find a fairy-"
"Ah!" said Tommy. "It is curious your saying that."
He got up and crossed the room. Opening a drawer of the writing table he took out a small snapshot print and brought it to Tuppence.
"Oh!" said Tuppence, "So you have got them developed. Which is this, the one you took of this room or the one I took?"
"The one I took. Yours didn't come out. You under exposed it. You always do."
"It is nice for you," said Tuppence, "to think that there is one thing you can do better than me."
"A foolish remark," said Tommy, "but I will let it pass for the moment.
What I wanted to show you was this."
He pointed to a small white speck on the photograph. "That is a scratch on the film," said Tuppence.
"Not at all," said Tommy. "That, Tuppence, is a fairy."
"Tommy, you idiot."
"Look for yourself."
He handed her a magnifying glass. Tuppence studied the print attentively through it. Seen thus by a slight stretch of fancy the scratch on the film could be imagined to represent a small winged creature perched on the fender "It has got wings!" cried Tuppence. "What fun, a real live fairy in our flat. Shall we write to Conan Doyle about it? Oh, Tommy. Do you think she'll give us wishes?"
"You will soon know," said Tommy. "You have been wishing hard enough for something to happen all the afternoon."
At that minute the door opened, and a tall lad of fifteen who seemed undecided as to whether he was a footman or a page boy inquired in a truly magnificent manner:
"Are you at Home, Madam? The front door bell has just rung."
"I wish Albert wouldn't go to the Pictures," sighed Tuppence after she had signified her assent, and Albert had withdrawn. "He's copying a Long Island butler now. Thank goodness I've cured him of asking for people's cards and bringing them to me on a salver."
The door opened again, and Albert announced: "Mr. Carter," much as though it were a Royal title.
"The Chief," muttered Tommy, in great surprise.
Tuppence jumped up with a glad exclamation, and greeted a tall grayhaired man with piercing eyes and a tired smile.
"Mr. Carter, I am glad to see you."
"That's good, Mrs. Tommy. Now answer me a question. How's life generally?"
"Satisfactory, but dull," replied Tuppence with a twinkle.
"Better and better," said Mr. Carter. "I'm evidently going to find you in the right mood."
"This," said Tuppence, "sounds exciting."
Albert, still copying the Long Island butler, brought in tea. When this
operation was completed without mishap and the door had closed behind him Tuppence burst out once more.
"You did mean something, didn't you Mr. Carter? Are you going to send us on a mission into darkest Russia?"
"Not exactly that," said Mr. Carter.
"But there is something."
"Yes-there is something. I don't think you are the kind who shrinks from risks, are you, Mrs. Tommy?"
Tuppence's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"There is certain work to be done for the Department-and I fancied-I just fancied-that it might suit you two."
"Go on," said Tuppence.
"I see that you take the Daily Leader," continued Mr. Carter, picking up that journal from the table.
He turned to the advertisement column and indicating a certain advertisement with his finger pushed the paper across to Tommy.
"Read that out," he said.
Tommy complied.
"The International Detective Agency. Theodore Blunt, Manager.
Private Inquiries. Large staff of confidential and highly skilled Inquiry Agents. Utmost discretion. Consultations free. 118 Haleham St. W.C."
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Carter. The latter nodded.
"That detective agency has been on its last legs for some time," he murmured. "Friend of mine acquired it for a mere song. We're thinking of setting it going again-say, for a six months' trial. And during that time, of course, it will have to have a Manager."
"What about Mr. Theodore Blunt?" asked Tommy.
"Mr. Blunt has been rather indiscreet, I'm afraid. In fact, Scotland Yard have had to interfere. Mr. Blunt is being detained at His Majesty's expense, and he won't tell us half of what we'd like to know."
"I see, sir," said Tommy. "At least, I think I see."
"I suggest that you have six months' leave from the office. III health.
And of course if you like to run a detective agency under the name of Theodore Blunt, it's nothing to do with me."
Tommy eyed his Chief steadily.
"Any instructions, sir?"
"Mr. Blunt did some foreign business, I believe. Look out for blue letters with a Russian stamp on them. From a ham merchant anxious to find his wife who came as a Refugee to this country some years ago.
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