Poirot Investigates
that a further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen
the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an
interesting psychological fact, Hastings. A murderer has always a
strong desire to repeat his successful crime, the performance of
it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of
Anubis you saw to-night was Hassan, dressed up by my orders. I
wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take
more than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he
was not entirely taken in by my pretences of belief in the occult.
The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected
that he would endeavour to make me the next victim. Ah, but in
spite of _la mer maudite_, the heat abominable, and the annoyances
of the sand, the little grey cells still functioned!”
Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner,
some years ago, in a fit of drunken merriment, had made a jocular
will, leaving “my cigarette case you admire so much and everything
else of which I die possessed which will be principally debts to
my good friend Robert Ames who once saved my life from drowning.”
The case was hushed up as far as possible, and, to this day, people
talk of the remarkable series of deaths in connection with the Tomb
of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone
king upon the desecrators of his tomb—a belief which, as Poirot
pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.
VII
The Jewel Robbery at the _Grand Metropolitan_
“Poirot,” I said, “a change of air would do you good.”
“You think so, _mon ami_?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Eh—eh?” said my friend, smiling. “It is all arranged, then?”
“You will come?”
“Where do you propose to take me?”
“Brighton. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine in the City put
me on to a very good thing, and—well, I have money to burn, as the
saying goes. I think a week-end at the _Grand Metropolitan_ would
do us all the good in the world.”
“Thank you, I accept most gratefully. You have the good heart to
think of an old man. And the good heart, it is in the end worth
all the little grey cells. Yes, yes, I who speak to you am in
danger of forgetting that sometimes.”
I did not quite relish the implication. I fancy that Poirot is
sometimes a little inclined to underestimate my mental capacities.
But his pleasure was so evident that I put my slight annoyance
aside.
“Then, that’s all right,” I said hastily.
Saturday evening saw us dining at the _Grand Metropolitan_ in the
midst of a gay throng. All the world and his wife seemed to be at
Brighton. The dresses were marvellous, and the jewels—worn sometimes
with more love of display than good taste—were something magnificent.
“_Hein_, it is a sight this!” murmured Poirot. “This is the home
of the Profiteer, is it not so, Hastings?”
“Supposed to be,” I replied. “But we’ll hope they aren’t all tarred
with the Profiteering brush.”
Poirot gazed round him placidly.
“The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains
to crime, instead of to its detection. What a magnificent
opportunity for some thief of distinction! Regard, Hastings, that
stout woman by the pillar. She is, as you would say, plastered with
gems.”
I followed his eyes.
“Why,” I exclaimed, “it’s Mrs. Opalsen.”
“You know her?”
“Slightly. Her husband is a rich stockbroker who made a fortune in
the recent Oil boom.”
After dinner we ran across the Opalsens in the lounge, and I
introduced Poirot to them. We chatted for a few minutes, and ended
by having our coffee together.
Poirot said a few words in praise of some of the costlier gems
displayed on the lady’s ample bosom, and she brightened up at once.
“It’s a perfect hobby of mine, Mr. Poirot. I just _love_ jewellery.
Ed knows my weakness, and every time things go well he brings me
something new. You are interested in precious stones?”
“I have had a good deal to do with them one time and another,
madame. My profession has brought me into contact with some of the
most famous jewels in the world.”
He went on to narrate, with discreet pseudonyms, the story of the
historic jewels of a reigning house, and Mrs. Opalsen listened with
bated breath.
“There now!” she exclaimed, as he ended. “If it isn’t just like a
play! You know, I’ve got some pearls of my own that have a history
attached to them. I believe it’s supposed to be one of the finest
necklaces in the world—the pearls are so beautifully matched and
so perfect in colour. I declare I really must run up and get it!”
“Oh, madame,” protested Poirot, “you are too amiable. Pray do not
derange yourself!”
“Oh, but I’d like to show it to you.”
The buxom dame waddled across to the lift briskly enough. Her
husband, who had been talking to me, looked at Poirot inquiringly.
“Madame your wife is so amiable as to insist on showing me her
pearl necklace,” explained the latter.
“Oh, the pearls!” Opalsen smiled in a satisfied fashion. “Well,
they _are_ worth seeing. Cost a pretty penny too! Still, the
money’s there all right; I could get what I paid for them any
day—perhaps more. May have to, too, if things go on as they are
now. Money’s confoundedly tight in the City. All this infernal
E.P.D.” He rambled on, launching into technicalities where I could
not follow him.
He was interrupted by a small page-boy who approached and murmured
something in his ear.
“Eh—what? I’ll come at once. Not taken ill, is she? Excuse me,
gentlemen.”
He left us abruptly. Poirot leaned back and lit one of his tiny
Russian cigarettes. Then, carefully and meticulously, he arranged
the empty coffee-cups in a neat row, and beamed happily on the
result.
The minutes passed. The Opalsens did not return.
“Curious,” I remarked, at length. “I wonder when they will come
back.”
Poirot watched the ascending spirals of smoke, and then said
thoughtfully:
“They will not come back.”
“Why?”
“Because, my friend, something has happened.”
“What sort of thing? How do you know?” I asked curiously.
Poirot smiled.
“A few moments ago the manager came hurriedly out of his office
and ran upstairs. He was much agitated. The lift-boy is deep in
talk with one of the pages. The lift-bell has rung three times,
but he heeds it not. Thirdly, even the waiters are _distrait_; and
to make a waiter _distrait_——” Poirot shook his head with an air
of finality. “The affair must indeed be of the first magnitude.
Ah, it is as I thought! Here come the police.”
Two men had just entered the hotel—one in uniform, the other in
plain clothes. They spoke to a page, and were immediately ushered
upstairs. A few minutes later, the same boy descended and came up
to where we were sitting.
“Mr. Opalsen’s compliments, and would you step upstairs.”
Poirot sprang nimbly to his feet. One would have said that he
awaited the summons. I followed with no less alacrity.
The Opalsens’ apartments were situated on the first floor. After
knocking on the door, the page-boy retired, and we answered the
summons, “Come in!” A strange scene met our eyes. The room was Mrs.
Opalsen’s bedroom, and in the centre of it, lying back in an
arm-chair, was the lady herself, weeping violently. She presented
an extraordinary spectacle, with the tears making great furrows in
the powder with which her complexion was liberally coated. Mr.
Opalsen was striding up and down angrily. The two police officials
stood in the middle of the room, one with a notebook in hand. An
hotel chambermaid, looking frightened to death, stood by the
fire-place; and on the other side of the room a Frenchwoman,
obviously Mrs. Opalsen’s maid, was weeping and wringing her hands,
with an intensity of grief that rivalled that of her mistress.
Into this pandemonium stepped Poirot, neat and smiling. Immediately,
with an energy surprising in one of her bulk, Mrs. Opalsen sprang
from her chair towards him.
“There now; Ed may say what he likes, but I believe in luck, I do.
It was fated I should meet you the way I did this evening, and I’ve
a feeling that if you can’t get my pearls back for me nobody can.”
“Calm yourself, I pray of you, madame.” Poirot patted her hand
soothingly. “Reassure yourself. All will be well. Hercule Poirot
will aid you!”
Mr. Opalsen turned to the police inspector.
“There will be no objection to my—er—calling in this gentleman, I
suppose?”
“None at all, sir,” replied the man civilly, but with complete
indifference. “Perhaps now your lady’s feeling better she’ll just
let us have the facts?”
Mrs. Opalsen looked helplessly at Poirot. He led her back to her
chair.
“Seat yourself, madame, and recount to us the whole history without
agitating yourself.”
Thus abjured, Mrs. Opalsen dried her eyes gingerly, and began.
“I came upstairs after dinner to fetch my pearls for Mr. Poirot
here to see. The chambermaid and Célestine were both in the room
as usual——”
“Excuse me, madame, but what do you mean by ‘as usual’?”
Mr. Opalsen explained.
“I make it a rule that no one is to come into this room unless
Célestine, the maid, is there also. The chambermaid does the room
in the morning while Célestine is present, and comes in after
dinner to turn down the beds under the same conditions; otherwise
she never enters the room.”
“Well, as I was saying,” continued Mrs. Opalsen, “I came up. I went
to the drawer here,”—she indicated the bottom right-hand drawer of
the knee-hole dressing-table—“took out my jewel-case and unlocked
it. It seemed quite as usual—but the pearls were not there!”
The inspector had been busy with his notebook. “When had you last
seen them?” he asked.
“They were there when I went down to dinner.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure. I was uncertain whether to wear them or not, but in
the end I decided on the emeralds, and put them back in the
jewel-case.”
“Who locked up the jewel-case?”
“I did. I wear the key on a chain round my neck.” She held it up
as she spoke.
The inspector examined it, and shrugged his shoulders.
“The thief must have had a duplicate key. No difficult matter. The
lock is quite a simple one. What did you do after you’d locked the
jewel-case?”
“I put it back in the bottom drawer where I always keep it.”
“You didn’t lock the drawer?”
“No, I never do. My maid remains in the room till I come up, so
there’s no need.”
The inspector’s face grew graver.
“Am I to understand that the jewels were there when you went down
to dinner, and that since then _the maid has not left the room_?”
Suddenly, as though the horror of her own situation for the first
time burst upon her, Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and,
flinging herself upon Poirot, poured out a torrent of incoherent
French.
The suggestion was infamous! That she should be suspected of
robbing Madame! The police were well known to be of a stupidity
incredible! But Monsieur, who was a Frenchman—
“A Belgian,” interjected Poirot, but Célestine paid no attention
to the correction.
Monsieur would not stand by and see her falsely accused, while that
infamous chambermaid was allowed to go scot-free. She had never
liked her—a bold, red-faced thing—a born thief. She had said from
the first that she was not honest. And had kept a sharp watch over
her too, when she was doing Madame’s room! Let those idiots of
policemen search her, and if they did not find Madame’s pearls on
her it would be very surprising!
Although this harangue was uttered in rapid and virulent French,
Célestine had interlarded it with a wealth of gesture, and the
chambermaid realized at least a part of her meaning. She reddened
angrily.
“If that foreign woman’s saying I took the pearls, it’s a lie!”
she declared heatedly. “I never so much as saw them.”