Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

We did so in silence. Once there, to my intense surprise, Poirot effected a rapid change of clothing.

‘I go to London tonight,’ he explained. ‘It is imperative.’

‘What?’

‘Absolutely. The real work, that of the brain (ah, those brave little grey cells), it is done. I go to seek the confirmation. I shall find it! Impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot!’

‘You’ll come a cropper one of these days,’ I observed, rather disgusted by his vanity.

‘Do not be enraged, I beg of you, mon ami. I count on you to do me a service – of your friendship.’

‘Of course,’ I said eagerly, rather ashamed of my moroseness. ‘What is it?’

‘The sleeve of my coat that I have taken off – will you brush it? See you, a little white powder has clung to it. You without doubt observed me run my finger round the drawer of the dressing-table?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘You should observe my actions, my friend. Thus I obtained the powder on my finger, and, being a little overexcited, I rubbed it on my sleeve; an action without method which I deplore – false to all my principles.’

‘But what was the powder?’ I asked, not particularly interested in Poirot’s principles.

‘Not the poison of the Borgias,’ replied Poirot with a twinkle. ‘I see your imagination mounting. I should say it was French chalk.’

‘French chalk?’

‘Yes, cabinet-makers use it to make drawers run smoothly.’

I laughed.

‘You old sinner! I thought you were working up to something exciting.’

‘Au revoir, my friend. I save myself. I fly!’

The door shut behind him. With a smile, half of derision, half of affection, I picked up the coat and stretched out my hand for the clothes brush.

The next morning, hearing nothing from Poirot, I went out for a stroll, met some old friends, and lunched with them at their hotel. In the afternoon we went for a spin. A punctured tyre delayed us, and it was past eight when I got back to the Grand Metropolitan.

The first sight that met my eyes was Poirot, looking even more diminutive than usual, sandwiched between the Opalsens, beaming in a state of placid satisfaction.

‘Mon ami Hastings!’ he cried, and sprang to meet me. ‘Embrace me, my friend; all has marched to a marvel!’

Luckily, the embrace was merely figurative – not a thing one is always sure of with Poirot.

‘Do you mean –’ I began.

‘Just wonderful, I call it!’ said Mrs Opalsen, smiling all over her fat face. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Ed, that if he couldn’t get back my pearls nobody would?’

‘You did, my dear, you did. And you were right.’

I looked helplessly at Poirot, and he answered the glance.

‘My friend Hastings is, as you say in England, all at the seaside. Seat yourself, and I will recount to you all the affair that has so happily ended.’

‘Ended?’

‘But yes. They are arrested.’

‘Who are arrested?’

‘The chambermaid and the valet, parbleu! You did not suspect? Not with my parting hint about the French chalk?’

‘You said cabinet-makers used it.’

‘Certainly they do – to make drawers slide easily. Somebody wanted the drawer to slide in and out without any noise. Who could that be? Obviously, only the chambermaid. The plan was so ingenious that it did not at once leap to the eye – not even to the eye of Hercule Poirot.

‘Listen, this was how it was done. The valet was in the empty room next door, waiting. The French maid leaves the room. Quick as a flash the chambermaid whips open the drawer, takes out the jewel-case and, slipping back the bolt, passes it through the door. The valet opens it at his leisure with the duplicate key with which he has provided himself, extracts the necklace, and waits his time. Célestine leaves the room again, and – pst! – in a flash the case is passed back again and replaced in the drawer.

‘Madame arrives, the theft is discovered. The chambermaid demands to be searched, with a good deal of righteous indignation, and leaves the room without a stain on her character. The imitation necklace with which they have provided themselves has been concealed in the French girl’s bed that morning by the chambermaid – a master stroke, ça!’

‘But what did you go to London for?’

‘You remember the card?’

‘Certainly. It puzzled me – and puzzles me still. I thought –’

I hesitated delicately, glancing at Mr Opalsen.

Poirot laughed heartily.

‘Une blague! For the benefit of the valet. The card was one with a specially prepared surface – for fingerprints. I went straight to Scotland Yard, asked for our old friend Inspector Japp, and laid the facts before him. As I had suspected, the fingerprints proved to be those of two well-known jewel thieves who have been “wanted” for some time. Japp came down with me, the thieves were arrested, and the necklace was discovered in the valet’s possession. A clever pair, but they failed in method. Have I not told you, Hastings, at least thirty-six times, that without method –’

‘At least thirty-six thousand times!’ I interrupted. ‘But where did their “method” break down?’

‘Mon ami, it is a good plan to take a place as chambermaid or valet – but you must not shirk your work. They left an empty room undusted; and therefore, when the man put down the jewel-case on the little table near the communicating door, it left a square mark –’

‘I remember,’ I cried.

‘Before, I was undecided. Then – I knew!’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘And I’ve got my pearls,’ said Mrs Opalsen as a sort of Greek chorus.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’d better have some dinner.’

Poirot accompanied me.

‘This ought to mean kudos for you,’ I observed.