Poirot’s Early Cases

‘Unless the affair is one of national importance, I touch it not,’ declared Poirot with dignity.

A moment later our privacy was invaded by a stout red–faced lady who panted audibly as a result of her rapid ascent of the stairs.

‘You’re M. Poirot?’ she demanded, as she sank into a chair.

‘I am Hercule Poirot, yes, madame.’

‘You’re not a bit like what I thought you’d be,’ said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. ‘Did you pay for the bit in the paper saying what a clever detective you were, or did they put it in themselves?’

‘Madame!’ said Poirot, drawing himself up.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, but you know what these papers are nowadays. You begin reading a nice article: “What a bride said to her plain unmarried friend”, and it’s all about a simple thing you buy at the chemist’s and shampoo your hair with. Nothing but puff. But no offence taken, I hope? I’ll tell you what I want you to do for me. I want you to find my cook.’

Poirot stared at her; for once his ready tongue failed him. I turned aside to hide the broadening smile I could not control.

‘It’s all this wicked dole,’ continued the lady. ‘Putting ideas into servants’ heads, wanting to be typists and what nots. Stop the dole, that’s what I say. I’d like to know what my servants have to complain of—afternoon and evening off a week, alternate Sundays, washing put out, same food as we have—and never a bit of margarine in the house, nothing but the very best butter.’

She paused for want of breath and Poirot seized his opportunity. He spoke in his haughtiest manner, rising to his feet as he did so.

‘I fear you are making a mistake, madame. I am not holding an inquiry into the conditions of domestic service. I am a private detective.’

‘I know that,’ said our visitor. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted you to find my cook for me? Walked out of the house on Wednesday, without so much as a word to me, and never came back.’

‘I am sorry, madame, but I do not touch this particular kind of business. I wish you good morning.’

Our visitor snorted with indignation.

‘That’s it, is it, my fine fellow? Too proud, eh? Only deal with Government secrets and countesses’ jewels? Let me tell you a servant’s every bit as important as a tiara to a woman in my position. We can’t all be fine ladies going out in our motors with our diamonds and our pearls. A good cook’s a good cook—and when you lose her, it’s as much to you as her pearls are to some fine lady.’

For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot’s dignity and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.

‘Madame, you are in the right, and I am in the wrong. Your remarks are just and intelligent. This case will be a novelty. Never yet have I hunted a missing domestic. Truly here is the problem of national importance that I was demanding of fate just before your arrival. En avant! You say this jewel of a cook went out on Wednesday and did not return. That is the day before yesterday.’

‘Yes, it was her day out.’

‘But probably, madame, she has met with some accident. Have you inquired at any of the hospitals?’

‘That’s exactly what I thought yesterday, but this morning, if you please, she sent for her box. And not so much as a line to me! If I’d been at home, I’d not have let it go—treating me like that! But I’d just stepped out to the butcher.’

‘Will you describe her to me?’

‘She was middle-aged, stout, black hair turning grey—most respectable. She’d been ten years in her last place. Eliza Dunn, her name was.’

‘And you had had—no disagreement with her on the Wednesday?’

‘None whatsoever. That’s what makes it all so queer.’

‘How many servants do you keep, madame?’

‘Two. The house-parlourmaid, Annie, is a very nice girl. A bit forgetful and her head full of young men, but a good servant if you keep her up to her work.’

‘Did she and the cook get on well together?’

‘They had their ups and downs, of course—but on the whole, very well.’

‘And the girl can throw no light on the mystery?’

‘She says not—but you know what servants are—they all hang together.’

‘Well, well, we must look into this. Where did you say you resided, madame?’

‘At Clapham; 88 Prince Albert Road.’

‘Bien, madame, I will wish you good morning, and you may count upon seeing me at your residence during the course of the day.’

Mrs Todd, for such was our new friend’s name, then took her departure. Poirot looked at me somewhat ruefully.

‘Well, well, Hastings, this is a novel affair that we have here. The Disappearance of the Clapham Cook! Never, never, must our friend Inspector Japp get to hear of this!’

He then proceeded to heat an iron and carefully removed the grease spot from his grey suit by means of a piece of blotting-paper. His moustaches he regretfully postponed to another day, and we set out for Clapham.

Prince Albert Road proved to be a street of small prim houses, all exactly alike, with neat lace curtains veiling the windows, and well-polished brass knockers on the doors.

We rang the bell at No. 88, and the door was opened by a neat maid with a pretty face. Mrs Todd came out in the hall to greet us.

‘Don’t go, Annie,’ she cried. ‘This gentleman’s a detective and he’ll want to ask you some questions.’

Annie’s face displayed a struggle between alarm and a pleasurable excitement.

‘I thank you, madame,’ said Poirot bowing. ‘I would like to question your maid now—and to see her alone, if I may.’

We were shown into a small drawing-room, and when Mrs Todd, with obvious reluctance, had left the room, Poirot commenced his cross-examination.

‘Voyons, Mademoiselle Annie, all that you shall tell us will be of the greatest importance. You alone can shed any light on the case. Without your assistance I can do nothing.’

The alarm vanished from the girl’s face and the pleasurable excitement became more strongly marked.

‘I’m sure, sir,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you anything I can.’

‘That is good.’ Poirot beamed approval on her. ‘Now, first of all what is your own idea? You are a girl of remarkable intelligence. That can be seen at once! What is your own explanation of Eliza’s disappearance?’

Thus encouraged, Annie fairly flowed into excited speech.

‘White slavers, sir, I’ve said so all along! Cook was always warning me against them. “Don’t you sniff no scent, or eat any sweets—no matter how gentlemanly the fellow!” Those were her words to me. And now they’ve got her! I’m sure of it. As likely as not, she’s been shipped to Turkey or one of them Eastern places where I’ve heard they like them fat!’

Poirot preserved an admirable gravity.

‘But in that case—and it is indeed an idea!—would she have sent for her trunk?’