Cat Among the Pigeons (18 page)

And suddenly, as had happened last night, a woman looked out of the child's eyes.

Poirot looked keenly at her and nodded.

“Yes—you understand—you feel the spell. They cannot be to you just pretty coloured playthings—more is the pity.”

“They're
jewels!
” said Julia, in tones of ecstasy.

“And you found them, you say, in this tennis racquet?”

Julia finished her recital.

“And you have now told me everything?”

“I think so. I may, perhaps, have exaggerated a little here and there. I do exaggerate sometimes. Now Jennifer, my great friend, she's the other way round. She can make the most exciting things sound dull.” She looked again at the shining heap. “M. Poirot, who do they really belong to?”

“It is probably very difficult to say. But they do not belong to either you or to me. We have to decide now what to do next.”

Julia looked at him in an expectant fashion.

“You leave yourself in my hands? Good.”

Hercule Poirot closed his eyes.

Suddenly he opened them and became brisk.

“It seems that this is an occasion when I cannot, as I prefer, remain in my chair. There must be order and method, but in what you tell me, there is no order and method. That is because we have here many threads. But they all converge and meet at one place, Meadowbank. Different people, with different aims, and representing different interests—all converge at Meadowbank. So, I, too, go to Meadowbank. And as for you—where is your mother?”

“Mummy's gone in a bus to Anatolia.”

“Ah, your mother has gone in a bus to Anatolia.
Il ne manquait que ça!
I perceive well that she might be a friend of Mrs. Summerhayes! Tell me, did you enjoy your visit with Mrs. Summerhayes?”

“Oh yes, it was great fun. She's got some lovely dogs.”

“The dogs, yes, I well remember.”

“They come in and out through all the windows—like in a pantomime.”

“You are so right! And the food? Did you enjoy the food?”

“Well, it was a bit peculiar sometimes,” Julia admitted.

“Peculiar, yes, indeed.”

“But Aunt Maureen makes smashing omelettes.”

“She makes smashing omelettes.” Poirot's voice was happy. He sighed.

“Then Hercule Poirot has not lived in vain,” he said. “It was
I
who taught your Aunt Maureen to make an omelette.” He picked up the telephone receiver.

“We will now reassure your good schoolmistress as to your safety and announce my arrival with you at Meadowbank.”

“She knows I'm all right. I left a note saying I hadn't been kidnapped.”

“Nevertheless, she will welcome further reassurance.”

In due course he was connected, and was informed that Miss Bulstrode was on the line.

“Ah, Miss Bulstrode? My name is Hercule Poirot. I have with me here your pupil Julia Upjohn. I propose to motor down with her immediately, and for the information of the police officer in charge of the case, a certain packet of some value has been safely deposited in the bank.”

He rang off and looked at Julia.

“You would like a
sirop?
” he suggested.

“Golden syrup?” Julia looked doubtful.

“No, a syrup of fruit juice. Blackcurrant, raspberry,
groseille
—that is, red currant?”

Julia settled for red currant.

“But the jewels aren't in the bank,” she pointed out.

“They will be in a very short time,” said Poirot. “But for the benefit of anyone who listens in at Meadowbank, or who overhears, or who is told, it is as well to think they are already there and no longer in your possession. To obtain jewels from a bank requires time and organization. And I should very much dislike anything to happen to you, my child. I will admit that I have formed a high opinion of your courage and your resource.”

Julia looked pleased but embarrassed.

I

H
ercule Poirot had prepared himself to beat down an insular prejudice that a headmistress might have against aged foreigners with pointed patent leather shoes and large moustaches. But he was agreeably surprised. Miss Bulstrode greeted him with cosmopolitan aplomb. She also, to his gratification, knew all about him.

“It was kind of you, M. Poirot,” she said, “to ring up so promptly and allay our anxiety. All the more so because that anxiety had hardly begun. You weren't missed at lunch, Julia, you know,” she added, turning to the girl. “So many girls were fetched away this morning, and there were so many gaps at table, that half the school could have been missing, I think, without any apprehension being aroused. These are unusual circumstances,” she said, turning back to Poirot. “I assure you we would not be so slack normally. When I received your telephone call,” she went on, “I went to Julia's room and found the note she had left.”

“I didn't want you to think I'd been kidnapped, Miss Bulstrode,” said Julia.

“I appreciate that, but I think, Julia, that you might have told me what you were planning to do.”

“I thought I'd better not,” said Julia, and added unexpectedly,
“Les oreilles ennemies nous écoutent.”

“Mademoiselle Blanche doesn't seem to have done much to improve your accent yet,” said Miss Bulstrode, briskly. “But I'm not scolding you, Julia.” She looked from Julia to Poirot. “Now, if you please, I want to hear exactly what has happened.”

“You permit?” said Hercule Poirot. He stepped across the room, opened the door and looked out. He made an exaggerated gesture of shutting it. He returned beaming.

“We are alone,” he said mysteriously. “We can proceed.”

Miss Bulstrode looked at him, then she looked at the door, then she looked at Poirot again. Her eyebrows rose. He returned her gaze steadily. Very slowly Miss Bulstrode inclined her head. Then, resuming her brisk manner, she said, “Now then, Julia, let's hear all about this.”

Julia plunged into her recital. The exchange of tennis racquets, the mysterious woman. And finally her discovery of what the racquet contained. Miss Bulstrode turned to Poirot. He nodded his head gently.

“Mademoiselle Julia has stated everything correctly,” he said. “I took charge of what she brought me. It is safely lodged in a bank. I think therefore that you need anticipate no further developments of an unpleasant nature here.”

“I see,” said Miss Bulstrode. “Yes, I see … ” She was quiet for a moment or two and then she said, “You think it wise for Julia to remain here? Or would it be better for her to go to her aunt in London?”

“Oh please,” said Julia, “do let me stay here.”

“You're happy here then?” said Miss Bulstrode.

“I love it,” said Julia. “And besides, there have been such exciting things going on.”

“That is
not
a normal feature of Meadowbank,” said Miss Bulstrode, dryly.

“I think that Julia will be in no danger here now,” said Hercule Poirot. He looked again towards the door.

“I think I understand,” said Miss Bulstrode.

“But for all that,” said Poirot, “there should be discretion. Do you understand discretion, I wonder?” he added, looking at Julia.

“M. Poirot means,” said Miss Bulstrode, “that he would like you to hold your tongue about what you found. Not talk about it to the other girls. Can you hold your tongue?”

“Yes,” said Julia.

“It is a very good story to tell to your friends,” said Poirot. “Of what you found in a tennis racquet in the dead of night. But there are important reasons why it would be advisable that that story should not be told.”

“I understand,” said Julia.

“Can I trust you, Julia?” said Miss Bulstrode.

“You can trust me,” said Julia. “Cross my heart.”

Miss Bulstrode smiled. “I hope your mother will be home before long,” she said.

“Mummy? Oh, I do hope so.”

“I understand from Inspector Kelsey,” said Miss Bulstrode, “that every effort is being made to get in touch with her. Unfortunately,” she added, “Anatolian buses are liable to unexpected delays and do not always run to schedule.”

“I can tell Mummy, can't I?” said Julia.

“Of course. Well, Julia, that's all settled. You'd better run along now.”

Julia departed. She closed the door after her. Miss Bulstrode looked very hard at Poirot.

“I have understood you correctly, I think,” she said. “Just now, you made a great parade of closing that door. Actually—you deliberately left it slightly open.”

Poirot nodded.

“So that what we said could be overheard?”

“Yes—if there was anyone who wanted to overhear. It was a precaution of safety for the child—the news must get round that what she found is safely in a bank, and not in her possession.”

Miss Bulstrode looked at him for a moment—then she pursed her lips grimly together.

“There's got to be an end to all this,” she said.

II

“The idea is,” said the Chief Constable, “that we try to pool our ideas and information. We are very glad to have you with us, M. Poirot,” he added. “Inspector Kelsey remembers you well.”

“It's a great many years ago,” said Inspector Kelsey. “Chief Inspector Warrender was in charge of the case. I was a fairly raw sergeant, knowing my place.”

“The gentleman called, for convenience's sake by us—Mr. Adam Goodman, is not known to you, M. Poirot, but I believe you do know his—his—er—chief. Special Branch,” he added.

“Colonel Pikeaway?” said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully.

“Ah, yes it is some time since I have seen him. Is he still as sleepy as ever?” he asked Adam.

Adam laughed. “I see you know him all right, M. Poirot. I've never seen him wide-awake. When I do, I'll know that for once he isn't paying attention to what goes on.”

“You have something there, my friend. It is well observed.”

“Now,” said the Chief Constable, “let's get down to things. I shan't push myself forward or urge my own opinions. I'm here to listen to what the men who are actually working on the case know and think. There are a great many sides to all this, and one thing perhaps I ought to mention first of all. I'm saying this as a result of representations that have been made to me from—er—various quarters high up.” He looked at Poirot. “Let's say,” he said, “that a little girl—a schoolgirl—came to you with a pretty tale of something she'd found in the hollowed-out handle of a tennis racquet. Very exciting for her. A collection, shall we say, of coloured stones, paste, good imitation—something of that kind—or even semi-precious stones which often look as attractive as the other kind. Anyway let's say something that a child would be excited to find. She might even have exaggerated ideas of its value. That's quite possible, don't you think?” He looked very hard at Hercule Poirot.

“It seems to me eminently possible,” said Hercule Poirot.

“Good,” said the Chief Constable. “Since the person who brought these—er—coloured stones into the country did so quite unknowingly and innocently, we don't want any question of illicit smuggling to arise.

“Then there is the question of our foreign policy,” he went on. “Things, I am led to understand, are rather—delicate just at present. When it comes to large interests in oil, mineral depos
its, all that sort of thing, we have to deal with whatever government's in power. We don't want any awkward questions to arise. You can't keep murder out of the Press, and murder hasn't been kept out of the Press. But there's been no mention of anything like jewels in connection with it. For the present, at any rate, there needn't be.”

“I agree,” said Poirot. “One must always consider international complications.”

“Exactly,” said the Chief Constable. “I think I'm right in saying that the late ruler of Ramat was regarded as a friend of this country, and that the powers that be would like his wishes in respect of any property of his that
might
be in this country to be carried out. What that amounts to, I gather, nobody knows at present. If the new Government of Ramat is claiming certain property which they allege belongs to them, it will be much better if we know nothing about such property being in this country. A plain refusal would be tactless.”

“One does not give plain refusals in diplomacy,” said Hercule Poirot. “One says instead that such a matter shall receive the utmost attention but that at the moment nothing definite is known about any little—nest egg, say—that the late ruler of Ramat may have possessed. It may be still in Ramat, it may be in the keeping of a faithful friend of the late Prince Ali Yusuf, it may have been taken out of the country by half a dozen people, it may be hidden somewhere in the city of Ramat itself.” He shrugged his shoulders. “One simply does not know.”

The Chief Constable heaved a sigh. “Thank you,” he said. “That's just what I mean.” He went on, “M. Poirot, you have friends in very high quarters in this country. They put much trust
in you. Unofficially they would like to leave a certain article in your hands if you do not object.”

“I do not object,” said Poirot. “Let us leave it at that. We have more serious things to consider, have we not?” He looked round at them. “Or perhaps you do not think so? But after all, what is three-quarters of a million or some such sum in comparison with human life?”

“You're right, M. Poirot,” said the Chief Constable.

“You're right every time,” said Inspector Kelsey. “What we want is a murderer. We shall be glad to have your opinion, M. Poirot,” he added, “because it's largely a question of guess and guess again and your guess is as good as the next man's and sometimes better. The whole thing's like a snarl of tangled wool.”

“That is excellently put,” said Poirot, “one has to take up that snarl of wool and pull out the one colour that we seek, the colour of a murderer. Is that right?”

“That's right.”

“Then tell me, if it is not too tedious for you to indulge in repetition, all that is known so far.”

He settled down to listen.

He listened to Inspector Kelsey, and he listened to Adam Goodman. He listened to the brief summing up of the Chief Constable. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and slowly nodded his head.

“Two murders,” he said, “committed in the same place and roughly under the same conditions. One kidnapping. The kidnapping of a girl who might be the central figure of the plot. Let us ascertain first
why
she was kidnapped.”

“I can tell you what she said herself,” said Kelsey.

He did so, and Poirot listened.

“It does not make sense,” he complained.

“That's what I thought at the time. As a matter of fact I thought she was just making herself important….”

“But the fact remains that she
was
kidnapped. Why?”

“There have been ransom demands,” said Kelsey slowly, “but—” he paused.

“But they have been, you think, phoney? They have been sent merely to bolster up the kidnapping theory?”

“That's right. The appointments made weren't kept.”

“Shaista, then, was kidnapped for some other reason. What reason?”

“So that she could be made to tell where the—er—valuables were hidden?” suggested Adam doubtfully.

Poirot shook his head.

“She did not know where they were hidden,” he pointed out. “That at least, is clear. No, there must be something….”

His voice tailed off. He was silent, frowning, for a moment or two. Then he sat up, and asked a question.

“Her knees,” he said. “Did you ever notice her knees?”

Adam stared at him in astonishment.

“No,” he said. “Why should I?”

“There are many reasons why a man notices a girl's knees,” said Poirot severely. “Unfortunately, you did not.”

“Was there something odd about her knees? A scar? Something of that kind? I wouldn't know. They all wear stockings most of the time, and their skirts are just below knee length.”

“In the swimming pool, perhaps?” suggested Poirot hopefully.

“Never saw her go in,” said Adam. “Too chilly for her, I expect.
She was used to a warm climate. What are you getting at? A scar? Something of that kind?”

“No, no, that is not it at all. Ah well, a pity.”

He turned to the Chief Constable.

“With your permission, I will communicate with my old friend, the Préfet, at Geneva. I think he may be able to help us.”

“About something that happened when she was at school there?”

“It is possible, yes. You do permit? Good. It is just a little idea of mine.” He paused and went on: “By the way, there has been nothing in the papers about the kidnapping?”

“The Emir Ibrahim was most insistent.”

“But I did notice a little remark in a gossip column. About a certain foreign young lady who had departed from school very suddenly. A budding romance, the columnist suggested? To be nipped in the bud if possible!”

“That was my idea,” said Adam. “It seemed a good line to take.”

“Admirable. So now we pass from kidnapping to something more serious. Murder. Two murders at Meadowbank.”