He waited for no reply but passed rapidly down the path and out through the door that creaked. Once outside on the road, his pace slackened. His vivacity died down, his face became grave and troubled. Once he drew his watch from his pocket and consulted it.
The hands pointed to ten minutes past eight. "Over three quarters of an hour," he murmured. "I wonder if I should have waited."
His footsteps slackened; he almost seemed on the point of returning. Some vague foreboding seemed to assail him. He shook it off resolutely, however, and continued to walk in the direction of the village. But his face was still troubled, and once or twice he shook his head like a man only partly satisfied.
It was still some minutes of nine when he once more approached the garden door. It was a dear, still evening; hardly a breeze stirred the leaves. There was, perhaps, something a little sinister in the stillness, like the lull before a storm.
Poirot's footsteps quickened ever so slightly. He was suddenly alarmed - and uncertain. He feared he knew not what.
And at that moment the garden door opened and Claude Langton stepped quickly out into the road. He started when he saw Poirot.
"Oh - er - good evening."
"Good evening, Monsieur Langton. You are early."
Langton stared at him. "I don't know what you mean."
"You have taken the wasps' nest?"
"As a matter of fact, I didn't."
"Oh!" said Poirot softly. "So you did not take the wasps' nest. What did you do then?"
"Oh, just sat and yarned a bit with old Harrison. I really must hurry along now, Monsieur Poirot. I'd no idea you were remaining in this part of the world."
"I had business here, you see."
"Oh! Well, you'll find Harrison on the terrace. Sorry I can't stop."
He hurried away. Poirot looked after him. A nervous young fellow, good looking with a weak mouth!
"So I shall find Harrison on the terrace," murmured Poirot. "I wonder." He went in through the garden door and up the path.
Harrison was sitting in a chair by the table. He sat motionless and did not even turn his head as Poirot came up to him.
"Ah! Mon ami," said Poirot. "You are all right, eh?"
There was a long pause and then Harrison said in a queer, dazed voice, "What did you say?"
"I said - are you all right?"
"All right? Yes, I'm all right. Why not?"
"You feel no ill effects? That is good."
"Ill effects? From what?"
"Washing soda."
Harrison roused himself suddenly.
"Washing soda? What do you mean?"
Poirot made an apologetic gesture. "I infinitely regret the necessity, but I put some in your pocket."
"You put some in my pocket? What on earth for?"
Harrison stared at him. Poirot spoke quietly and impersonally like a lecturer coming down to the level of a small child.
"You see, one of the advantages, or disadvantages, of being a detective is that it brings you into contact with the criminal classes.
And the criminal classes, they can teach you some very interesting and curious things. There was a pickpocket once - I interested myself in him because for once in a way he has not done what they say he has done - and so I get him off. And because he is grateful he pays me in the only way he can think of - which is to show me the tricks of his trade.
"And so it happens that I can pick a man's pocket if I choose without his ever suspecting the fact. I lay one hand on his shoulder, I excite myself, and he feels nothing. But all the same I have managed to transfer what is in his pocket to my pocket and leave washing soda in its place.
"You see," continued Poirot dreamily, "if a man wants to get at some poison quickly to put in a glass, unobserved, he positively must keep it in his righthand coat pocket; there is nowhere else. I knew it would be there."
He dropped his hand into his pocket and brought out a few white, lumpy crystals. "Exceedingly dangerous," he murmured, "to carry it like that - loose."
Calmly and without hurrying himself, he took from another pocket a wide-mouthed bottle. He slipped in the crystals, stepped to the table and filled up the bottle with plain water. Then carefully corking it, he shook it until all the crystals were dissolved. Harrison watched him as though fascinated.
Satisfied with his solution, Poirot stepped across to the nest. He uncorked the bottle, turned his head aside, and poured the solution into the wasps' nest, then stood back a pace or two watching.
Some wasps that were returning alighted, quivered a little and then lay still. Other wasps crawled out of the hole only to die. Poirot watched for a minute or two and then nodded his head and came back to the veranda.
"A quick death," he said. "A very quick death."
Harrison found his voice. "How much do you know?"
Poirot looked straight ahead. "As I told you, I saw Claude Langton's name in the book. What I did not tell you was that almost immediately afterward, I happened to meet him. He told me he had been buying cyanide of potassium at your request - to take a wasps' nest. That struck me as a little odd, my friend, because I remember that at that dinner of which you spoke, you held forth on the superior merits of petrol and denounced the buying of cyanide as dangerous and unnecessary."
"Go on."
"I knew something else. I had seen Claude Langton and Molly Deane together when they thought no one saw them. I do not know what lovers' quarrel it was that originally parted them and drove her into your arms, but I realized that misunderstandings were over and that Miss Deane was drifting back to her love."
"Go on."
"I knew something more, my friend. I was in Harley Street the other day, and I saw you come out of a certain doctor's house. I know that doctor and for what disease one consults him, and I read the expression on your face. I have seen it only once or twice in my lifetime, but it is not easily mistaken. It was the face of a man under sentence of death. I am right, am I not?"
"Quite right. He gave me two months."
"You did not see me, my friend, for you had other things to think about. I saw something else on your face - the thing that I told you this afternoon men try to conceal. I saw hate there, my friend. You did not trouble to conceal it, because you thought there were none to observe."
"Go on," said Harrison.
"There is not much more to say. I came down here, saw Langton's name by accident in the poison book as I tell you, met him, and came here to you. I laid traps for you. You denied having asked Langton to get cyanide, or rather you expressed surprise at his having done so. You were taken aback at first at my appearance, but presently, you saw how well it would fit in and you encouraged my suspicions. I knew from Langton himself that he was coming at half past eight. You told me nine o'clock, thinking I should come and find everything over. And so I knew everything."
"Why did you come?" cried Harrison. "If only you hadn't come!"
Poirot drew himself up. "I told you," he said, "murder is my business."
"Murder? Suicide, you mean."
"No." Poirot's voice rang out sharply and clearly. "I mean murder.
Your death was to be quick and easy, but the death you planned for Langton was the worst death any man can die. He bought the poison; he comes to see you, and he is alone with you. You die suddenly, and the cyanide is found in your glass, and Claude Langton hangs. That was your plan."
Again Harrison moaned.
"Why did you come? Why did you come?"
"I have told you, but there is another reason. I liked you. Listen, mon ami, you are a dying man; you have lost the girl you loved, but there is one thing that you are not: you are not a murderer. Tell me now: are you glad or sorry that I came?"
There was a moment's pause and then Harrison drew himself up.
There was a new dignity in his face - the look of a man who has conquered his own baser self. He stretched out his hand across the table.
"Thank goodness you came," he cried. "Oh! Thank goodness you came."<
br />
THE VEILED LADY
I had noticed that for some time Poirot had been growing increasingly dissatisfied and restless. We had had no interesting cases of late, nothing on which my little friend could exercise his keen wits and remarkable powers of deduction. This morning he flung down the newspaper with an impatient 'Tchah!' - a favourite exclamation of his which sounded exactly like a cat sneezing.
'They fear me, Hastings; the criminals of your England they fear me!
When the cat is there, the little mice, they come no more to the cheese!'
'I don't suppose the greater part of them even know of your existence,' I said, laughing.
Poirot looked at me reproachfully. He always imagines that the whole world is thinking and talking of Hercule Poirot. He had certainly made a name for himself in London, but I could hardly believe that his existence struck terror into the criminal world.
'What about that daylight robbery of jewels in Bond Street the other day?' I asked.
'A neat coup,' said Poirot approvingly, 'though not in my line. Pas de finesse, seuelment de l'audace! A man with a loaded cane smashes the plate-glass window of a jeweller's shop and grabs a number of precious stones. Worthy citizens immediately seize him; a policeman arrives. He is caught red-handed with the jewels on him.
He is marched off to the police, and then it is discovered that the stones are paste. He has passed the real ones to a confederate one of the aforementioned worthy citizens. He will go to prison true; but when he comes out, there will be a nice little fortune awaiting him. Yes, not badly imagined. But I could do better than that. Sometimes, Hastings, I regret that I am of such a moral disposition. To work against the law, it would be pleasing, for a change.'
'Cheer up, Poirot; you know you are unique in your own line.'
'But what is there on hand in my own line?'
I picked up the paper.
'Here's an Englishman mysteriously done to death in Holland,' I said.
'They always say that - and later they find that he ate the tinned fish and that his death is perfectly natural.'
'Well, if you're determined to grouse!'
'Tiens!' said Poirot, who had strolled across to the window. 'Here in the street is what they call in novels a "heavily veiled lady". She mounts the steps; she rings the bell - she comes to consult us. Here is a possibility of something interesting. When one is as young and pretty as that one, one does not veil the face except for a big affair.'
A minute later our visitor was ushered in. As Poirot had said, she was indeed heavily veiled. It was impossible to distinguish her features until she raised her veil of black Spanish lace. Then I saw that Poirot's intuition had been right; the lady was extremely pretty, with fair hair and large blue eyes. From the costly simplicity of her attire, I deduced at once that she belonged to the upper strata of society.
'Monsieur Poirot,' said the lady in a soft, musical voice, 'I am in great trouble. I can hardly believe that you can help me, but I have heard such wonderful things of you that I come literally as a last hope to beg you to do the impossible.'
'The impossible, it pleases me always,' said Poirot. 'Continue, I beg of you, mademoiselle.'
Our fair guest hesitated.
'But you must be frank,' added Poirot. 'You must not leave me in the dark on any point.'
'I will trust you,' said the girl suddenly. 'You have heard of Lady Millicent Castle Vaughan?'
I looked up with keen interest. The announcement of Lady Millicent's engagement to the young Duke of Southshire had appeared a few days previously. She was, I knew, the fifth daughter of an impecunious Irish peer, and the Duke of Southshire was one of the best matches in England.
'I am Lady Millicent,' continued the girl. 'You may have read of my engagement. I should be one of the happiest girls alive; but oh, M.
Poirot, I am in terrible trouble! There is a man, a horrible man - his name is Lavington; and he - I hardly know how to tell you. There was a letter I wrote - I was only sixteen at the time; and he - he -'
'A letter that you wrote to this Mr Lavington?'
'Oh no - not to him! To a young soldier - I was very fond of him - he was killed in the war.'
'I understand,' said Poirot kindly.
'It was a foolish letter, an indiscreet letter, but indeed, M. Poirot, nothing more. But there are phrases in it which - which might bear a different interpretation.'
'I see,' said Poirot. 'And this letter has come into the possession of Mr Lavington?'
'Yes, and he threatens, unless I pay him an enormous sum of money, a sum that it is quite impossible for me to raise, to send it to the Duke.'
'The dirty swine!' I ejaculated. 'I beg your pardon, Lady Millicent.'
'Would it not be wiser to confess all to your future husband?'
'I dare not, M. Poirot. The Duke is a rather peculiar character, jealous and suspicious and prone to believe the worst. I might as well break off my engagement at once.'
'Dear, dear,' said Poirot with an expressive grimace. 'And what do you want me to do, milady?'
'I thought perhaps that I might ask Mr Lavington to call upon you. I would tell him that you were empowered by me to discuss the matter. Perhaps you could reduce his demands.'
'What sum does he mention?'
'Twenty thousand pounds - an impossibility. I doubt if I could raise a thousand, even.'
'You might perhaps borrow the money on the prospect of your approaching marriage - but I doubt if you could get hold of half that sum. Besides - eh bien, it is repugnant to me that you should pay!
No, the ingenuity of Hercule Poirot shall defeat your enemies! Send me this Mr Lavington. Is he likely to bring the letter with him?'
The girl shook her head.
'I do not think so. He is very cautious.'
'I suppose there is no doubt that he really has it?'
'He showed it to me when I went to his house.'
'You went to his house? That was very imprudent, milady.'
'Was it? I was so desperate. I hoped my entreaties might move him.'
'Oh, la la! The Lavingtons of this world are not moved by entreaties!
He would welcome them as showing how much importance you attached to the document. Where does he live, this fine gentleman?'
'At Buona Vista, Wimbledon. I went there after dark -' Poirot groaned. 'I declared that I would inform the police in the end, but he only laughed in a horrid, sneering manner. "By all means, my dear Lady Millicent, do so if you wish," he said.'
'Yes, it is hardly an affair for the police,' murmured Poirot.
'"But I think you will be wiser than that," he continued. "See, here is your letter - in this little Chinese puzzle box!" He held it so that I could see. I tried to snatch at it, but he was too quick for me. With a horrid smile he folded it up and replaced it in the little wooden box.
"It will be quite safe here, I assure you," he said, "and the box itself lives in such a clever place that you would never find it." My eyes turned to the small wall-safe, and he shook his head and laughed. "I have a better safe than that," he said. Oh, he was odious! M. Poirot, do you think that you can help me?'
'Have faith in Papa Poirot. I will find a way.'
These reassurances were all very well, I thought, as Poirot gallantly ushered his fair client down the stairs, but it seemed to me that we had a tough nut to crack. I said as much to Poirot when he returned.
He nodded ruefully.
'Yes - the solution does not leap to the eye. He has the whip hand, this M. Lavington. For the moment I do not see how we are to circumvent him.'
Mr Lavington duly called upon us that afternoon. Lady Millicent had spoken truly when she described him as an odious man. I felt a positive tingling in the end of my boot, so keen was I to kick him down the stairs. He was blustering and overbearing in manner, laughed Poirot's gentle suggestions to scorn, and generally showed himself as master of the situation. I could not help feeling that Poirot was hardly appearing at his best. He looked discouraged
and crestfallen.
'Well, gentlemen,' said Lavington, as he took up his hat, 'we don't seem to be getting much further. The case stands like this: I'll let the Lady Millicent off cheap, as she is such a charming young lady.'
He leered odiously. 'We'll say eighteen thousand. I'm off to Paris today - a little piece of business to attend to over there. I shall be back on Tuesday. Unless the money is paid by Tuesday evening, the letter goes to the Duke. Don't tell me Lady Millicent can't raise the money. Some of her gentlemen friends would be only too willing to oblige such a pretty woman with a loan - if she goes the right way about it.'
My face flushed, and I took a step forward, but Lavington had wheeled out of the room as he finished his sentence.
'My God!' I cried. 'Something has got to be done. You seem to be taking this lying down, Poirot.'
'You have an excellent heart, my friend - but your grey cells are in a deplorable condition. I have no wish to impress Mr Lavington with my capabilities. The more pusillanimous he thinks me, the better.'
'Why?'
'It is curious,' murmured Poirot reminiscently, 'that I should have uttered a wish to work against the law just before Lady Millicent arrived!'
'You are going to burgle his house while he is away?' I gasped.
'Sometimes, Hastings, your mental processes are amazingly quick.'
'Suppose he takes the letter with him?'
Poirot shook his head.
'That is very unlikely. He has evidently a hiding-place in his house that he fancies to be pretty impregnable.'
'When do we - er - do the deed?'
'Tomorrow night. We will start from here about eleven o'clock.'
At the time appointed I was ready to set off. I had donned a dark suit, and a soft dark hat. Poirot beamed kindly on me.
'You have dressed the part, I see,' he observed. 'Come let us take the underground to Wimbledon.'
'Aren't we going to take anything with us? Tools to break in with?'
'My dear Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not adopt such crude methods.'
I retired, snubbed, but my curiosity was alert.
It was just on midnight that we entered the small suburban garden of Buona Vista. The house was dark and silent. Poirot went straight to a window at the back of the house, raised the sash noiselessly and bade me enter.
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