Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  I did not see him again until the evening, when he condescended to tell me what he had been doing.

  “I have made inquiries at the firm of Mr. Todd. He was not absent on Wednesday, and he bears a good character—so much for him. Then Simpson, on Thursday he was ill and did not come to the bank, but he was there on Wednesday. He was moderately friendly with Davis. Nothing out of the common. There does not seem to be anything there. No. We must place our reliance on the advertisement.”

  The advertisement duly appeared in all the principal daily papers. By Poirot’s orders it was to be continued every day for a week. His eagerness over this uninteresting matter of a defaulting cook was extraordinary, but I realized that he considered it a point of honour to persevere until he finally succeeded. Several extremely interesting cases were brought to him about this time, but he declined them all. Every morning he would rush at his letters, scrutinize them earnestly and then lay them down with a sigh.

  But our patience was rewarded at last. On the Wednesday following Mrs. Todd’s visit, our landlady informed us that a person of the name of Eliza Dunn had called.

  “Enfin!” cried Poirot. “But make her mount then! At once. Immediately.”

  Thus admonished, our landlady hurried out and returned a moment or two later, ushering in Miss Dunn. Our quarry was much as described: tall, stout, and eminently respectable.

  “I came in answer to the advertisement,” she explained. “I thought there must be some muddle or other, and that perhaps you didn’t know I’d already got my legacy.”

  Poirot was studying her attentively. He drew forward a chair with a flourish.

  “The truth of the matter is,” he explained, “that your late mistress, Mrs. Todd, was much concerned about you. She feared some accident might have befallen you.”

  Eliza Dunn seemed very much surprised.

  “Didn’t she get my letter then?”

  “She got no word of any kind.” He paused, and then said persuasively: “Recount to me the whole story, will you not?”

  Eliza Dunn needed no encouragement. She plunged at once into a lengthy narrative.

  “I was just coming home on Wednesday night and had nearly got to the house, when a gentleman stopped me. A tall gentleman he was, with a beard and a big hat. ‘Miss Eliza Dunn?’ he said. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been inquiring for you at No. 88,’ he said. ‘They told me I might meet you coming along here. Miss Dunn, I have come from Australia specially to find you. Do you happen to know the maiden name of your maternal grandmother?’ ‘Jane Emmott,’ I said. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Now, Miss Dunn, although you may never have heard of the fact, your grandmother had a great friend, Eliza Leech. This friend went to Australia where she married a very wealthy settler. Her two children died in infancy, and she inherited all her husband’s property. She died a few months ago, and by her will you inherit a house in this country and a considerable sum of money.’

  “You could have knocked me down with a feather,” continued Miss Dunn. “For a minute, I was suspicious, and he must have seen it, for he smiled. ‘Quite right to be on your guard, Miss Dunn,’ he said. ‘Here are my credentials.’ He handed me a letter from some lawyers in Melbourne, Hurst and Crotchet, and a card. He was Mr. Crotchet. ‘There are one or two conditions,’ he said. ‘Our client was a little eccentric, you know. The bequest is conditional on your taking possession of the house (it is in Cumberland) before twelve o’clock tomorrow. The other condition is of no importance—it is merely a stipulation that you should not be in domestic service.’ My face fell. ‘Oh, Mr. Crotchet,’ I said. ‘I’m a cook. Didn’t they tell you at the house?’ ‘Dear, dear,’ he said. ‘I had no idea of such a thing. I thought you might possibly be a companion or governess there. This is very unfortunate—very unfortunate indeed.’

  “ ‘Shall I have to lose all the money?’ I said, anxious like. He thought for a minute or two. ‘There are always ways of getting round the law, Miss Dunn,’ he said at last. ‘We as lawyers know that. The way out here is for you to have left your employment this afternoon.’ ‘But my month?’ I said. ‘My dear Miss Dunn,’ he said with a smile. ‘You can leave an employer any minute by forfeiting a month’s wages. Your mistress will understand in view of the circumstances. The difficulty is time! It is imperative that you should catch the 11.05 from King’s Cross to the north. I can advance you ten pounds or so for the fare, and you can write a note at the station to your employer. I will take it to her myself and explain the whole circumstances.’ I agreed, of course, and an hour later I was in the train, so flustered that I didn’t know whether I was on my head or heels. Indeed by the time I got to Carlisle, I was half inclined to think the whole thing was one of those confidence tricks you read about. But I went to the address he had given me—solicitors they were, and it was all right. A nice little house, and an income of three hundred a year. These lawyers knew very little, they’d just got a letter from a gentleman in London instructing them to hand over the house to me and £150 for the first six months. Mr. Crotchet sent up my things to me, but there was no word from Missus. I supposed she was angry and grudged me my bit of luck. She kept back my box too, and sent my clothes in paper parcels. But there, of course if she never had my letter, she might think it a bit cool of me.”

  Poirot had listened attentively to this long history. Now he nodded his head as though completely satisfied.

  “Thank you, mademoiselle. There had been, as you say, a little muddle. Permit me to recompense you for your trouble.” He handed her an envelope. “You return to Cumberland immediately? A little word in your ear. Do not forget how to cook. It is always useful to have something to fall back upon in case things go wrong.”

  “Credulous,” he murmured, as our visitor departed, “but perhaps not more than most of her class.” His face grew grave. “Come, Hastings, there is no time to be lost. Get a taxi while I write a note to Japp.”

  Poirot was waiting on the doorstep when I returned with the taxi.

  “Where are we going?” I asked anxiously.

  “First, to despatch this note by special messenger.”

  This was done, and reentering the taxi Poirot gave the address to the driver.

  “Eighty-eight Prince Albert Road, Clapham.”

  “So we are going there?”

  “Mais oui. Though frankly I fear we shall be too late. Our bird will have flown, Hastings.”

  “Who is our bird?”

  Poirot smiled.

  “The inconspicuous Mr. Simpson.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, come now, Hastings, do not tell me that all is not clear to you now!”

  “The cook was got out of the way, I realize that,” I said, slightly piqued. “But why? Why should Simpson wish to get her out of the house? Did she know something about him?”

  “Nothing whatever.”

  “Well, then—”

  “But he wanted something that she had.”

  “Money? The Australian legacy?”

  “No, my friend—something quite different.” He paused a moment and then said gravely: “A battered tin trunk. . . .”

  I looked sideways at him. His statement seemed so fantastic that I suspected him of pulling my leg, but he was perfectly grave and serious.

  “Surely he could buy a trunk if he wanted one,” I cried.

  “He did not want a new trunk. He wanted a trunk of pedigree. A trunk of assured respectability.”

  “Look here, Poirot,” I cried, “this really is a bit thick. You’re pulling my leg.”

  He looked at me.

  “You lack the brains and the imagination of Mr. Simpson, Hastings. See here: On Wednesday evening, Simpson decoys away the cook. A printed card and a printed sheet of notepaper are simple matters to obtain, and he is willing to pay £150 and a year’s house rent to assure the success of his plan. Miss Dunn does not recognize him—the beard and the hat and the slight colonial accent completely deceive her. That is the end of Wednesday—except for the
trifling fact that Simpson has helped himself to fifty thousand pounds’ worth of negotiable securities.”

  “Simpson—but it was Davis—”

  “If you will kindly permit me to continue, Hastings! Simpson knows that the theft will be discovered on Thursday afternoon. He does not go to the bank on Thursday, but he lies in wait for Davis when he comes out to lunch. Perhaps he admits the theft and tells Davis he will return the securities to him—anyhow he succeeds in getting Davis to come to Clapham with him. It is the maid’s day out, and Mrs. Todd was at the sales, so there is no one in the house. When the theft is discovered and Davis is missing, the implication will be overwhelming. Davis is the thief! Mr. Simpson will be perfectly safe, and can return to work on the morrow like the honest clerk they think him.”

  “And Davis?”

  Poirot made an expressive gesture, and slowly shook his head.

  “It seems too cold-blooded to be believed, and yet what other explanation can there be, mon ami. The one difficulty for a murderer is the disposal of the body—and Simpson had planned that out beforehand. I was struck at once by the fact that although Eliza Dunn obviously meant to return that night when she went out (witness her remark about the stewed peaches) yet her trunk was all ready packed when they came for it. It was Simpson who sent word to Carter Paterson to call on Friday and it was Simpson who corded up the box on Thursday afternoon. What suspicion could possibly arise? A maid leaves and sends for her box, it is labelled and addressed ready in her name, probably to a railway station within easy reach of London. On Saturday afternoon, Simpson, in his Australian disguise, claims it, he affixes a new label and address and redespatches it somewhere else, again ‘to be left till called for.’ When the authorities get suspicious, for excellent reasons, and open it, all that can be elicited will be that a bearded colonial despatched it from some junction near London. There will be nothing to connect it with 88 Prince Albert Road. Ah! Here we are.”

  Poirot’s prognostications had been correct. Simpson had left days previously. But he was not to escape the consequences of his crime. By the aid of wireless, he was discovered on the Olympia, en route to America.

  A tin trunk, addressed to Mr. Henry Wintergreen, attracted the attention of railway officials at Glasgow. It was opened and found to contain the body of the unfortunate Davis.

  Mrs. Todd’s cheque for a guinea was never cashed. Instead Poirot had it framed and hung on the wall of our sitting room.

  “It is to me a little reminder, Hastings. Never to despise the trivial—the undignified. A disappearing domestic at one end—a cold-blooded murder at the other. To me, one of the most interesting of my cases.”

  Twenty-one

  THE LOST MINE

  “The Lost Mine” was first published in The Sketch, November 21, 1923.

  I laid down my bank book with a sigh.

  “It is a curious thing,” I observed, “but my overdraft never seems to grow any less.”

  “And it perturbs you not? Me, if I had an overdraft, never should I close my eyes all night,” declared Poirot.

  “You deal in comfortable balances, I suppose!” I retorted.

  “Four hundred and forty-four pounds, four and fourpence,” said Poirot with some complacency. “A neat figure, is it not?”

  “It must be tact on the part of your bank manager. He is evidently acquainted with your passion for symmetrical details. What about investing, say, three hundred of it in the Porcupine oil fields? Their prospectus, which is advertised in the papers today, says that they will pay one hundred per cent dividends next year.”

  “Not for me,” said Poirot, shaking his head. “I like not the sensational. For me the safe, the prudent investment—les rentes, the consols, the—how do you call it?—the conversion.”

  “Have you never made a speculative investment?”

  “No, mon ami,” replied Poirot severely. “I have not. And the only shares I own which have not what you call the gilded edge are fourteen thousand shares in the Burma Mines Ltd.”

  Poirot paused with an air of waiting to be encouraged to go on.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  “And for them I paid no cash—no, they were the reward of the exercise of my little grey cells. You would like to hear the story? Yes?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “These mines are situated in the interior of Burma about two hundred miles inland from Rangoon. They were discovered by the Chinese in the fifteenth century and worked down to the time of the Mohammedan Rebellion, being finally abandoned in the year 1868. The Chinese extracted the rich lead-silver ore from the upper part of the ore body, smelting it for the silver alone, and leaving large quantities of rich lead-bearing slag. This, of course, was soon discovered when prospecting work was carried out in Burma, but owing to the fact that the old workings had become full of loose filling and water, all attempts to find the source of the ore proved fruitless. Many parties were sent out by syndicates, and they dug over a large area, but this rich prize still eluded them. But a representative of one of the syndicates got on the track of a Chinese family who were supposed to have still kept a record of the situation of the mine. The present head of the family was one Wu Ling.”

  “What a fascinating page of commercial romance!” I exclaimed.

  “Is it not? Ah, mon ami, one can have romance without golden-haired girls of matchless beauty—no, I am wrong; it is auburn hair that so excites you always. You remember—”

  “Go on with the story,” I said hastily.

  “Eh bien, my friend, this Wu Ling was approached. He was an estimable merchant, much respected in the province where he lived. He admitted at once that he owned the documents in question, and was perfectly prepared to negotiate for this sale, but he objected to dealing with anyone other than principals. Finally it was arranged that he should journey to England and meet the directors of an important company.

  “Wu Ling made the journey to England in the SS Assunta, and the Assunta docked at Southampton on a cold, foggy morning in November. One of the directors, Mr. Pearson, went down to Southampton to meet the boat, but owing to the fog, the train down was very much delayed, and by the time he arrived, Wu Ling had disembarked and left by special train for London. Mr. Pearson returned to town somewhat annoyed, as he had no idea where the Chinaman proposed to stay. Later in the day, however, the offices of the company were rung up on the telephone. Wu Ling was staying at the Russell Square Hotel. He was feeling somewhat unwell after the voyage, but declared himself perfectly able to attend the board meeting on the following day.

  “The meeting of the board took place at eleven o’clock. When half past eleven came, and Wu Ling had not put in an appearance, the secretary rang up the Russell Hotel. In answer to his inquiries, he was told that the Chinaman had gone out with a friend about half past ten. It seemed clear that he had started out with the intention of coming to the meeting, but the morning wore away, and he did not appear. It was, of course, possible that he had lost his way, being unacquainted with London, but at a late hour that night he had not returned to the hotel. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mr. Pearson put matters in the hands of the police. On the following day, there was still no trace of the missing man, but towards evening of the day after that again, a body was found in the Thames which proved to be that of the ill-fated Chinaman. Neither on the body, nor in the luggage at the hotel, was there any trace of the papers relating to the mine.

  “At this juncture, mon ami, I was brought into the affair. Mr. Pearson called upon me. While profoundly shocked by the death of Wu Ling, his chief anxiety was to recover the papers which were the object of the Chinaman’s visit to England. The main anxiety of the police, of course, would be to track down the murderer—the recovery of the papers would be a secondary consideration. What he wanted me to do was to cooperate with the police while acting in the interests of the company.

  “I consented readily enough. It was clear that there were two fields of search open to me. On the one hand, I might look
among the employees of the company who knew of the Chinaman’s coming; on the other, among the passengers on the boat who might have been acquainted with his mission. I started with the second, as being a narrower field of search. In this I coincided with Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the case—a man altogether different from our friend Japp, conceited, ill-mannered and quite insufferable. Together we interviewed the officers of the ship. They had little to tell us. Wu Ling had kept much to himself on the voyage. He had been intimate with but two of the other passengers—one a broken-down European named Dyer who appeared to bear a somewhat unsavoury reputation, the other a young bank clerk named Charles Lester, who was returning from Hong Kong. We were lucky enough to obtain snapshots of both these men. At the moment there seemed little doubt that if either of the two was implicated, Dyer was the man. He was known to be mixed up with a gang of Chinese crooks, and was altogether a most likely suspect.

  “Our next step was to visit the Russell Square Hotel. Shown a snapshot of Wu Ling, they recognized him at once. We then showed them the snapshot of Dyer, but to our disappointment, the hall porter declared positively that that was not the man who had come to the hotel on the fatal morning. Almost as an afterthought, I produced the photograph of Lester, and to my surprise the man at once recognized it.

  “ ‘Yes, sir,’ he asserted, ‘that’s the gentleman who came in at half past ten and asked for Mr. Wu Ling, and afterwards went out with him.’

  “The affair was progressing. Our next move was to interview Mr. Charles Lester. He met us with the utmost frankness, was desolated to hear of the Chinaman’s untimely death, and put himself at our disposal in every way. His story was as follows: By arrangement with Wu Ling, he called for him at the hotel at ten thirty. Wu Ling, however, did not appear. Instead, his servant came, explained that his master had had to go out, and offered to conduct the young man to where his master now was. Suspecting nothing, Lester agreed, and the Chinaman procured a taxi. They drove for some time in the direction of the docks. Suddenly becoming mistrustful, Lester stopped the taxi and got out, disregarding the servant’s protests. That, he assured us, was all he knew.