Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘You had another daughter once. She is dead, madame?’

Again there was a pause, as she searched him with her eyes. Then she answered: ‘Yes, she is dead.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot briskly. ‘Well, we must return to town. You permit that I return the king of clubs to the pack? It was your only slip. You understand, to have played bridge for an hour or so, with only fifty-one cards – well, no one who knows anything of the game would credit it for a minute! Bonjour!’

‘And now, my friend,’ said Poirot as we stepped towards the station, ‘you see it all!’

‘I see nothing! Who killed Reedburn?’

‘John Oglander, Junior. I was not quite sure if it was the father or the son, but I fixed on the son as being the stronger and younger of the two. It had to be one of them, because of the window.’

‘Why?’

‘There were four exits from the library – two doors, two windows; but evidently only one would do. Three exits gave on the front, directly or indirectly. The tragedy had to occur in the back window in order to make it appear that Valerie Saintclair came to Daisymead by chance. Really, of course, she fainted, and John Oglander carried her across over his shoulders. That is why I said he must be a strong man.’

‘Did they go there together, then?’

‘Yes. You remember Valerie’s hesitation when I asked her if she was not afraid to go alone? John Oglander went with her – which didn’t improve Reedburn’s temper, I fancy. They quarrelled, and it was probably some insult levelled at Valerie that made Oglander hit him. The rest, you know.’

‘But why the bridge?’

‘Bridge presupposes four players. A simple thing like that carries a lot of conviction. Who would have supposed that there had been only three people in that room all the evening?’

I was still puzzled.

‘There’s one thing I don’t understand. What have the Oglanders to do with the dancer Valerie Saintclair?’

‘Ah, that I wonder you did not see. And yet you looked long enough at that picture on the wall – longer than I did. Mrs Oglander’s other daughter may be dead to her family, but the world knows her as Valerie Saintclair!’

‘What?’

‘Did you not see the resemblance the moment you saw the two sisters together?’

‘No,’ I confessed. ‘I only thought how extraordinarily dissimilar they were.’

‘That is because your mind is so open to external romantic impressions, my dear Hastings. The features are almost identical. So is the colouring. The interesting thing is that Valerie is ashamed of her family, and her family is ashamed of her. Nevertheless, in a moment of peril, she turned to her brother for help, and when things went wrong, they all hung together in a remarkable way. Family strength is a marvellous thing. They can all act, that family. That is where Valerie gets her histrionic talent from. I, like Prince Paul, believe in heredity! They deceived me! But for a lucky accident, and test question to Mrs Oglander by which I got her to contradict her daughter’s account of how they were sitting, the Oglander family would have put a defeat on Hercule Poirot.’

‘What shall you tell the Prince?’

‘That Valerie could not possibly have committed the crime, and that I doubt if that tramp will ever be found. Also, to convey my compliments to Zara. A curious coincidence, that! I think I shall call this little affair the Adventure of the King of Clubs. What do you think, my friend?’

4 The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim (#ulink_99b11a1a-46b9-5bcc-8f52-d0d97c53bdeb)

‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ was first published in The Sketch, 28 March 1923.

Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he described as ‘your English poison’.

A sharp ‘rat-tat’ sounded below, and a few minutes afterwards Japp entered briskly.

‘Hope I’m not late,’ he said as he greeted us. ‘To tell the truth, I was yarning with Miller, the man who’s in charge of the Davenheim case.’

I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been full of the strange disappearance of Mr Davenheim, senior partner of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On Saturday last he had walked out of his house, and had never been seen since. I looked forward to extracting some interesting details from Japp.

‘I should have thought,’ I remarked, ‘that it would be almost impossible for anyone to “disappear” nowadays.’

Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch, and said sharply:

‘Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by “disappear”? To which class of disappearance are you referring?’

‘Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?’ I laughed.

Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at both of us.

‘But certainly they are! They fall into three categories: First, and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much abused “loss of memory” case – rare, but occasionally genuine. Third, murder, and a more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of execution?’

‘Very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory, but someone would be sure to recognize you – especially in the case of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then “bodies” can’t be made to vanish into thin air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places, or in trunks. Murder will out. In the same way, the absconding clerk, or the domestic defaulter, is bound to be run down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He can be headed off from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are watched; and as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance will be known to everyone who reads a daily newspaper. He’s up against civilization.’

‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘you make one error. You do not allow for the fact that a man who had decided to make away with another man – or with himself in a figurative sense – might be that rare machine, a man of method. He might bring intelligence, talent, a careful calculation of detail to the task; and then I do not see why he should not be successful in baffling the police force.’

‘But not you, I suppose?’ said Japp good-humouredly, winking at me. ‘He couldn’t baffle you, eh, Monsieur Poirot?’

Poirot endeavoured, with a marked lack of success, to look modest. ‘Me also! Why not? It is true that I approach such problems with an exact science, a mathematical precision, which seems, alas, only too rare in the new generation of detectives!’

Japp grinned more widely.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Miller, the man who’s on this case, is a smart chap. You may be very sure he won’t overlook a footprint, or a cigar-ash, or a crumb even. He’s got eyes that see everything.’

‘So, mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘has the London sparrow. But all the same, I should not ask the little brown bird to solve the problem of Mr Davenheim.’

‘Come now, monsieur, you’re not going to run down the value of details as clues?’

‘By no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger is they may assume undue importance. Most details are insignificant; one or two are vital. It is the brain, the little grey cells’ – he tapped his forehead – ‘on which one must rely. The senses mislead. One must seek the truth within – not without.’

‘You don’t mean to say, Monsieur Poirot, that you would undertake to solve a case without moving from your chair, do you?’

‘That is exactly what I do mean – granted the facts were placed before me. I regard myself as a consulting specialist.’

Japp slapped his knee. ‘Hanged if I don’t take you at your word. Bet you a fiver that you can’t lay your hand – or rather tell me where to lay my hand – on Mr Davenheim, dead or alive, before a week is out.’

Poirot considered. ‘Eh bien, mon ami, I accept. Le sport, it is the passion of you English. Now – the facts.’

‘On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr Davenheim took the 12.40 train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country seat, The Cedars, is situated. After lunch, he strolled round the grounds, and gave various directions to the gardeners. Everybody agrees that his manner was absolutely normal and as usual. After tea he put his head into his wife’s boudoir, saying that he was going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added that he was expecting a Mr Lowen, on business. If he should come before he himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and asked to wait. Mr Davenheim then left the house by the front door, passed leisurely down the drive, and out at the gate, and – was never seen again. From that hour, he vanished completely.’

‘Pretty – very pretty – altogether a charming little problem,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Proceed, my good friend.’

‘About a quarter of an hour later a tall, dark man with a thick black moustache rang the front door-bell, and explained that he had an appointment with Mr Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen, and in accordance with the banker’s instructions was shown into the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr Davenheim did not return. Finally Mr Lowen rang the bell, and explained that he was unable to wait any longer, as he must catch his train back to town.

‘Mrs Davenheim apologized for her husband’s absence, which seemed unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor. Mr Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure.