Poirot's Early Cases (8 page)

‘Yes, Jacob, but I’ve got a sharp temper, I know. After all, it was only silliness on Auntie’s part. I ought to have just laughed and not minded. Of course, it’s all nonsense her thinking that Uncle was poisoning her. She
was
worse after any food he gave her—but I’m sure it was only from thinking about it. She made up her mind she would be, and then she was.’

‘What was the actual cause of your disagreement, mademoiselle?’

Miss Stanton hesitated, looking at Radnor. That young gentleman was quick to take the hint.

‘I must be getting along, Freda. See you this evening. Goodbye, gentlemen; you’re on your way to the station, I suppose?’

Poirot replied that we were, and Radnor departed.

‘You are affianced, is it not so?’ demanded Poirot, with a sly smile.

Freda Stanton blushed and admitted that such was the case.

‘And that was really the whole trouble with Auntie,’ she added.

‘She did not approve of the match for you?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t that so much. But you see, she—’ The girl came to a stop.

‘Yes?’ encouraged Poirot gently.

‘It seems rather a horrid thing to say about her—now she’s dead. But you’ll never understand unless I tell you. Auntie was absolutely infatuated with Jacob.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, wasn’t it absurd? She was over fifty, and he’s not quite thirty! But there it was. She was silly about him! I had to tell her at last that it was me he was after—and she carried on dreadfully. She wouldn’t believe a word of it, and was so rude and insulting that it’s no wonder I lost my temper. I talked it over with Jacob, and we agreed that the best thing to do was for me to clear out for a bit till she came to her senses. Poor Auntie—I suppose she was in a queer state altogether.’

‘It would certainly seem so. Thank you, mademoiselle, for making things so clear to me.’

A little to my surprise, Radnor was waiting for us in the street below.

‘I can guess pretty well what Freda has been telling you,’ he remarked. ‘It was a most unfortunate thing to happen, and very awkward for me, as you can imagine.
I need hardly say that it was none of my doing. I was pleased at first, because I imagined the old woman was helping on things with Freda. The whole thing was absurd—but extremely unpleasant.’

‘When are you and Miss Stanton going to be married?’

‘Soon, I hope. Now, M. Poirot, I’m going to be candid with you. I know a bit more than Freda does. She believes her uncle to be innocent. I’m not so sure. But I can tell you one thing: I’m going to keep my mouth shut about what I do know. Let sleeping dogs lie. I don’t want my wife’s uncle tried and hanged for murder.’

‘Why do you tell me all this?’

‘Because I’ve heard of you, and I know you’re a clever man. It’s quite possible that you might ferret out a case against him. But I put it to you—what good is that? The poor woman is past help, and she’d have been the last person to want a scandal—why, she’d turn in her grave at the mere thought of it.’

‘You are probably right there. You want me to—hush it up, then?’

‘That’s my idea. I’ll admit frankly that I’m selfish about it. I’ve got my way to make—and I’m building up a good little business as a tailor and outfitter.’

‘Most of us are selfish, Mr Radnor. Not all of us admit it so freely. I will do what you ask—but I
tell you frankly you will not succeed in hushing it up.’

‘Why not?’

Poirot held up a finger. It was market day, and we were passing the market—a busy hum came from within.

‘The voice of the people—that is why, Mr Radnor. Ah, we must run, or we shall miss our train.’

‘Very interesting, is it not, Hastings?’ said Poirot, as the train steamed out of the station.

He had taken out a small comb from his pocket, also a microscopic mirror, and was carefully arranging his moustache, the symmetry of which had become slightly impaired during our brisk run.

‘You seem to find it so,’ I replied. ‘To me, it is all rather sordid and unpleasant. There’s hardly any mystery about it.’

‘I agree with you; there is no mystery whatever.’

‘I suppose we can accept the girl’s rather extraordinary story of her aunt’s infatuation? That seemed the only fishy part to me. She was such a nice, respectable woman.’

‘There is nothing extraordinary about that—it is
completely ordinary. If you read the papers carefully, you will find that often a nice respectable woman of that age leaves a husband she has lived with for twenty years, and sometimes a whole family of children as well, in order to link her life with that of a young man considerably her junior. You admire
les femmes
, Hastings; you prostrate yourself before all of them who are good-looking and have the good taste to smile upon you; but psychologically you know nothing whatever about them. In the autumn of a woman’s life, there comes always one mad moment when she longs for romance, for adventure—before it is too late. It comes none the less surely to a woman because she is the wife of a respectable dentist in a country town!’

‘And you think—’

‘That a clever man might take advantage of such a moment.’

‘I shouldn’t call Pengelley so clever,’ I mused. ‘He’s got the whole town by the ears. And yet I suppose you’re right. The only two men who know anything, Radnor and the doctor, both want to hush it up. He’s managed that somehow. I wish we’d seen the fellow.’

‘You can indulge your wish. Return by the next train and invent an aching molar.’

I looked at him keenly.

‘I wish I knew what you considered so interesting about the case.’

‘My interest is very aptly summed up by a remark of yours, Hastings. After interviewing the maid, you observed that for someone who was not going to say a word, she had said a good deal.’

‘Oh!’ I said doubtfully; then I harped back to my original criticism: ‘I wonder why you made no attempt to see Pengelley?’

‘
Mon ami
, I give him just three months. Then I shall see him for as long as I please—in the dock.’

For once I thought Poirot’s prognostications were going to be proved wrong. The time went by, and nothing transpired as to our Cornish case. Other matters occupied us, and I had nearly forgotten the Pengelley tragedy when it was suddenly recalled to me by a short paragraph in the paper which stated that an order to exhume the body of Mrs Pengelley had been obtained from the Home Secretary.

A few days later, and ‘The Cornish Mystery’ was the topic of every paper. It seemed that gossip had never entirely died down, and when the engagement of the widower to Miss Marks, his secretary, was announced, the tongues burst out again louder than ever. Finally a petition was sent to the Home Secretary; the body was
exhumed; large quantities of arsenic were discovered; and Mr Pengelley was arrested and charged with the murder of his wife.

Poirot and I attended the preliminary proceedings. The evidence was much as might have been expected. Dr Adams admitted that the symptoms of arsenical poisoning might easily be mistaken for those of gastritis. The Home Office expert gave his evidence; the maid Jessie poured out a flood of voluble information, most of which was rejected, but which certainly strengthened the case against the prisoner. Freda Stanton gave evidence as to her aunt’s being worse whenever she ate food prepared by her husband. Jacob Radnor told how he had dropped in unexpectedly on the day of Mrs Pengelley’s death, and found Pengelley replacing the bottle of weed-killer on the pantry shelf, Mrs Pengelley’s gruel being on the table close by. Then Miss Marks, the fair-haired secretary, was called, and wept and went into hysterics and admitted that there had been ‘passages’ between her and her employer, and that he had promised to marry her in the event of anything happening to his wife. Pengelley reserved his defence and was sent for trial.

Jacob Radnor walked back with us to our lodgings.

‘You see, Mr Radnor,’ said Poirot, ‘I was right. The voice of the people spoke—and with no uncertain voice. There was to be no hushing up of this case.’

‘You were quite right,’ sighed Radnor. ‘Do you see any chance of his getting off?’

‘Well, he has reserved his defence. He may have something—up the sleeves, as you English say. Come in with us, will you not?’

Radnor accepted the invitation. I ordered two whiskies and sodas and a cup of chocolate. The last order caused consternation, and I much doubted whether it would ever put in an appearance.

‘Of course,’ continued Poirot, ‘I have a good deal of experience in matters of this kind. And I see only one loophole of escape for our friend.’

‘What is it?’

‘That you should sign this paper.’

With the suddenness of a conjuror, he produced a sheet of paper covered with writing.

‘What is it?’

‘A confession that
you
murdered Mrs Pengelley.’

There was a moment’s pause; then Radnor laughed.

‘You must be mad!’

‘No, no, my friend, I am not mad. You came here; you started a little business; you were short of money. Mr Pengelley was a man very well-to-do. You met his niece; she was inclined to smile upon you. But the small allowance that Pengelley might have given her upon her marriage was not enough for you. You must get rid of both the uncle and the aunt; then the money would come to her, since she was the only relative. How cleverly you set about it! You made love to that plain middle-aged woman until she was your slave. You implanted in her doubts of her husband. She discovered first that he was deceiving her—then, under your guidance, that he was trying to poison her. You were often at the house; you had opportunities to introduce the arsenic into her food. But you were careful never to do so when her husband was away. Being a woman, she did not keep her suspicions to herself. She talked to her niece; doubtless she talked to other women friends. Your only difficulty was keeping up separate relations with the two women, and even that was not so difficult as it looked. You explained to the aunt that, to allay the suspicions of her husband, you had to pretend to pay court to the niece. And the younger lady needed little convincing—she would never seriously consider her aunt as a rival.

‘But then Mrs Pengelley made up her mind, without
saying anything to you, to consult
me
. If she could be really assured, beyond any possible doubt, that her husband was trying to poison her, she would feel justified in leaving him, and linking her life with yours—which is what she imagined you wanted her to do. But that did not suit your book at all. You did not want a detective prying around. A favourable minute occurs. You are in the house when Mr Pengelley is getting some gruel for his wife, and you introduce the fatal dose. The rest is easy. Apparently anxious to hush matters up, you secretly foment them. But you reckoned without Hercule Poirot, my intelligent young friend.’

Radnor was deadly pale, but he still endeavoured to carry off matters with a high hand.

‘Very interesting and ingenious, but why tell me all this?’

‘Because, monsieur, I represent—not the law, but Mrs Pengelley. For her sake, I give you a chance of escape. Sign this paper, and you shall have twenty-four hours’ start—twenty-four hours before I place it in the hands of the police.’

Radnor hesitated.

‘You can’t prove anything.’

‘Can’t I? I am Hercule Poirot. Look out of the window, monsieur. There are two men in the street. They have orders not to lose sight of you.’

Radnor strode across to the window and pulled aside the blind, then shrank back with an oath.

‘You see, monsieur? Sign—it is your best chance.’

‘What guarantee have I—’

‘That I shall keep faith? The word of Hercule Poirot. You will sign? Good. Hastings, be so kind as to pull that left-hand blind half-way up. That is the signal that Mr Radnor may leave unmolested.’

White, muttering oaths, Radnor hurried from the room. Poirot nodded gently.

‘A coward! I always knew it.’

‘It seems to me, Poirot, that you’ve acted in a criminal manner,’ I cried angrily. ‘You always preach against sentiment. And here you are letting a dangerous criminal escape out of sheer sentimentality.’

‘That was not sentiment—that was business,’ replied Poirot. ‘Do you not see, my friend, that we have no shadow of proof against him? Shall I get up and say to twelve stolid Cornishmen that
I
, Hercule Poirot,
know
? They would laugh at me. The only chance was to frighten him and get a confession that way. Those two loafers that I noticed outside came in very useful. Pull down the blind again, will you, Hastings. Not that there was any reason for raising it. It was part of our
mise en scène
.

‘Well, well, we must keep our word. Twenty-four hours, did I say? So much longer for poor Mr Pengelley—and
it is not more than he deserves; for mark you, he deceived his wife. I am very strong on the family life, as you know. Ah, well, twenty-four hours—and then? I have great faith in Scotland Yard. They will get him,
mon ami
; they will get him.’

‘You can understand the feelings of a mother,’ said Mrs Waverly for perhaps the sixth time.

She looked appealingly at Poirot. My little friend, always sympathetic to motherhood in distress, gesticulated reassuringly.

‘But yes, but yes, I comprehend perfectly. Have faith in Papa Poirot.’

‘The police—’ began Mr Waverly.

His wife waved the interruption aside. ‘I won’t have anything more to do with the police. We trusted to them and look what happened! But I’d heard so much of M. Poirot and the wonderful things he’d done, that I felt he might possibly be able to help us. A mother’s feelings—’

Poirot hastily stemmed the reiteration with an eloquent gesture. Mrs Waverly’s emotion was obviously genuine, but it assorted strangely with her shrewd,
rather hard type of countenance. When I heard later that she was the daughter of a prominent steel manufacturer who had worked his way up in the world from an office boy to his present eminence, I realized that she had inherited many of the paternal qualities.

Mr Waverly was a big, florid, jovial-looking man. He stood with his legs straddled wide apart and looked the type of the country squire.

‘I suppose you know all about this business, M. Poirot?’

The question was almost superfluous. For some days past the papers had been full of the sensational kidnapping of little Johnnie Waverly, the three-year-old son and heir of Marcus Waverly, Esq., of Waverly Court, Surrey, one of the oldest families in England.

‘The main facts I know, of course, but recount to me the whole story, monsieur, I beg of you. And in detail if you please.’

‘Well, I suppose the beginning of the whole thing was about ten days ago when I got an anonymous letter—beastly things, anyway—that I couldn’t make head or tail of. The writer had the impudence to demand that I should pay him twenty-five thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand pounds, M. Poirot! Failing my agreement, he threatened to kidnap Johnnie. Of course I threw the thing into the wastepaper basket without more ado. Thought it was some silly joke. Five days
later I got another letter. “Unless you pay, your son will be kidnapped on the twenty-ninth.” That was on the twenty-seventh. Ada was worried, but I couldn’t bring myself to treat the matter seriously. Damn it all, we’re in England. Nobody goes about kidnapping children and holding them up to ransom.’

‘It is not a common practice, certainly,’ said Poirot. ‘Proceed, monsieur.’

‘Well, Ada gave me no peace, so—feeling a bit of a fool—I laid the matter before Scotland Yard. They didn’t seem to take the thing very seriously—inclined to my view that it was some silly joke. On the twenty-eighth I got a third letter. “You have not paid. Your son will be taken from you at twelve o’clock noon tomorrow, the twenty-ninth. It will cost you fifty thousand pounds to recover him.” Up I drove to Scotland Yard again. This time they were more impressed. They inclined to the view that the letters were written by a lunatic, and that in all probability an attempt of some kind would be made at the hour stated. They assured me that they would take all due precautions. Inspector McNeil and a sufficient force would come down to Waverly on the morrow and take charge.

‘I went home much relieved in mind. Yet we already had the feeling of being in a state of siege. I gave orders that no stranger was to be admitted, and that
no one was to leave the house. The evening passed off without any untoward incident, but on the following morning my wife was seriously unwell. Alarmed by her condition, I sent for Doctor Dakers. Her symptoms appeared to puzzle him. While hesitating to suggest that she had been poisoned, I could see that was what was in his mind. There was no danger, he assured me, but it would be a day or two before she would be able to get about again. Returning to my own room, I was startled and amazed to find a note pinned to my pillow. It was in the same handwriting as the others and contained just three words: “At twelve o’clock”.

‘I admit, M. Poirot, that then I saw red! Someone in the house was in this—one of the servants. I had them all up, blackguarded them right and left. They never split on each other; it was Miss Collins, my wife’s companion, who informed me that she had seen Johnnie’s nurse slip down the drive early that morning. I taxed her with it, and she broke down. She had left the child with the nursery maid and stolen out to meet a friend of hers—a man! Pretty goings on! She denied having pinned the note to my pillow—she may have been speaking the truth, I don’t know. I felt I couldn’t take the risk of the child’s own nurse being in the plot. One of the servants was implicated—of that I was sure. Finally I lost my temper and sacked the whole bunch, nurse and
all. I gave them an hour to pack their boxes and get out of the house.’

Mr Waverly’s face was quite two shades redder as he remembered his just wrath.

‘Was not that a little injudicious, monsieur?’ suggested Poirot. ‘For all you know, you might have been playing into the enemy’s hands.’

Mr Waverly stared at him. ‘I don’t see that. Send the whole lot packing, that was my idea. I wired to London for a fresh lot to be sent down that evening. In the meantime, there’d be only people I could trust in the house: my wife’s secretary, Miss Collins, and Tredwell, the butler, who has been with me since I was a boy.’

‘And this Miss Collins, how long has she been with you?’

‘Just a year,’ said Mrs Waverly. ‘She has been invaluable to me as a secretary-companion, and is also a very efficient housekeeper.’

‘The nurse?’

‘She has been with me six months. She came to me with excellent references. All the same, I never really liked her, although Johnnie was quite devoted to her.’

‘Still, I gather she had already left when the catastrophe occurred. Perhaps, Monsieur Waverly, you will be so kind as to continue.’

Mr Waverly resumed his narrative.

‘Inspector McNeil arrived about ten-thirty. The servants had all left by then. He declared himself quite satisfied with the internal arrangements. He had various men posted in the park outside, guarding all the approaches to the house, and he assured me that if the whole thing were not a hoax, we should undoubtedly catch my mysterious correspondent.

‘I had Johnnie with me, and he and I and the inspector went together into the room we call the council chamber. The inspector locked the door. There is a big grandfather clock there, and as the hands drew near to twelve I don’t mind confessing that I was as nervous as a cat. There was a whirring sound, and the clock began to strike. I clutched at Johnnie. I had a feeling a man might drop from the skies. The last stroke sounded, and as it did so, there was a great commotion outside—shouting and running. The inspector flung up the window, and a constable came running up.

‘ “We’ve got him sir,” he panted. “He was sneaking up through the bushes. He’s got a whole dope outfit on him.”

‘We hurried out on the terrace where two constables were holding a ruffianly-looking fellow in shabby clothes, who was twisting and turning in a vain endeavour to escape. One of the policemen held out an unrolled parcel which they had wrested from their captive. It contained a pad of cotton wool and a bottle
of chloroform. It made my blood boil to see it. There was a note, too, addressed to me. I tore it open. It bore the following words: “You should have paid up. To ransom your son will now cost you fifty thousand. In spite of all your precautions he has been abducted on the twenty-ninth as I said.”

‘I gave a great laugh, the laugh of relief, but as I did so I heard the hum of a motor and a shout. I turned my head. Racing down the drive towards the south lodge at a furious speed was a low, long grey car. It was the man who drove it who shouted, but that was not what gave me a shock of horror. It was the sight of Johnnie’s flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him.

‘The inspector ripped out an oath. “The child was here not a minute ago,” he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss Collins. “When did you last see him, Mr Waverly?”

‘I cast my mind back, trying to remember. When the constable had called us, I had run out with the inspector, forgetting all about Johnnie.

‘And then there came a sound that startled us, the chiming of a church clock from the village. With an exclamation the inspector pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With one common accord we ran to the council chamber; the clock there marked the hour as ten minutes past. Someone must have
deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper.’

Mr Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat which the anxious father had pushed askew.

‘A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming,’ murmured Poirot. ‘I will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned
à merveille
.’

Mrs Waverly looked at him reproachfully. ‘But my boy,’ she wailed.

Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest sympathy again. ‘He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey—no, the goose—that lays the golden eggs?’

‘M. Poirot, I’m sure there’s only one thing to be done—pay up. I was all against it at first—but now! A mother’s feelings—’

‘But we have interrupted monsieur in his history,’ cried Poirot hastily.

‘I expect you know the rest pretty well from the papers,’ said Mr Waverly. ‘Of course, Inspector McNeil got on to the telephone immediately. A description of the car and the man was circulated all round, and it looked at first as though everything was going to turn out all right. A car, answering to the description, with a man and a small boy, had passed through various
villages, apparently making for London. At one place they had stopped, and it was noticed that the child was crying and obviously afraid of his companion. When Inspector McNeil announced that the car had been stopped and the man and boy detained, I was almost ill with relief. You know the sequel. The boy was not Johnnie, and the man was an ardent motorist, fond of children, who had picked up a small child playing in the streets of Edenswell, a village about fifteen miles from us, and was kindly giving him a ride. Thanks to the cocksure blundering of the police, all traces have disappeared. Had they not persistently followed the wrong car, they might by now have found the boy.’

‘Calm yourself, monsieur. The police are a brave and intelligent force of men. Their mistake was a very natural one. And altogether it was a clever scheme. As to the man they caught in the grounds, I understand that his defence has consisted all along of a persistent denial. He declared that the note and parcel were given to him to deliver at Waverly Court. The man who gave them to him handed him a ten-shilling note and promised him another if it were delivered at exactly ten minutes to twelve. He was to approach the house through the grounds and knock at the side door.’

‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ declared Mrs Waverly hotly. ‘It’s all a parcel of lies.’

‘
En verité
, it is a thin story,’ said Poirot reflectively.
‘But so far they have not shaken it. I understand, also, that he made a certain accusation?’

His glance interrogated Mr Waverly. The latter got rather red again.

‘The fellow had the impertinence to pretend that he recognized in Tredwell the man who gave him the parcel. “Only the bloke has shaved off his moustache.” Tredwell, who was born on the estate!’

Poirot smiled a little at the country gentleman’s indignation. ‘Yet you yourself suspect an inmate of the house to have been accessory to the abduction.’

‘Yes, but not Tredwell.’

‘And you, madame?’ asked Poirot, suddenly turning to her.

‘It could not have been Tredwell who gave this tramp the letter and parcel—if anybody ever did, which I don’t believe. It was given him at ten o’clock, he says. At ten o’clock Tredwell was with my husband in the smoking-room.’

‘Were you able to see the face of the man in the car, monsieur? Did it resemble that of Tredwell in any way?’

‘It was too far away for me to see his face.’

‘Has Tredwell a brother, do you know?’

‘He had several, but they are all dead. The last one was killed in the war.’

‘I am not yet clear as to the grounds of Waverly
Court. The car was heading for the south lodge. Is there another entrance?’

‘Yes, what we call the east lodge. It can be seen from the other side of the house.’

‘It seems to me strange that nobody saw the car entering the grounds.’

‘There is a right of way through, and access to a small chapel. A good many cars pass through. The man must have stopped the car in a convenient place and run up to the house just as the alarm was given and attention attracted elsewhere.’

‘Unless he was already inside the house,’ mused Poirot. ‘Is there any place where he could have hidden?’

‘Well, we certainly didn’t make a thorough search of the house beforehand. There seemed no need. I suppose he might have hidden himself somewhere, but who would have let him in?’

‘We shall come to that later. One thing at a time—let us be methodical. There is no special hiding-place in the house? Waverly Court is an old place, and there are sometimes “priests’ holes”, as they call them.’

‘By gad, there
is
a priest’s hole. It opens from one of the panels in the hall.’

‘Near the council chamber?’

‘Just outside the door.’

‘
Voilà
!’

‘But nobody knows of its existence except my wife and myself.’

‘Tredwell?’

‘Well—he might have heard of it.’

‘Miss Collins?’

‘I have never mentioned it to her.’

Poirot reflected for a minute.

‘Well, monsieur, the next thing is for me to come down to Waverly Court. If I arrive this afternoon, will it suit you?’

‘Oh, as soon as possible, please, Monsieur Poirot!’ cried Mrs Waverly. ‘Read this once more.’

She thrust into his hands the last missive from the enemy which had reached the Waverlys that morning and which had sent her post-haste to Poirot. It gave clever and explicit directions for the paying over of the money, and ended with a threat that the boy’s life would pay for any treachery. It was clear that a love of money warred with the essential mother love of Mrs Waverly, and that the latter was at last gaining the day.