Poirot Investigates
“Search her!” screamed the other. “You will find it is as I say.”
“You’re a liar—do you hear?” said the chambermaid, advancing upon
her. “Stole ’em yourself, and want to put it on me. Why, I was only
in the room about three minutes before the lady come up, and then
you were sitting here the whole time, as you always do, like a cat
watching a mouse.”
The inspector looked across inquiringly at Célestine. “Is that
true? Didn’t you leave the room at all?”
“I did not actually leave her alone,” admitted Célestine reluctantly,
“but I went into my own room through the door here twice—once to
fetch a reel of cotton, and once for my scissors. She must have
done it then.”
“You wasn’t gone a minute,” retorted the chambermaid angrily. “Just
popped out and in again. I’d be glad if the police _would_ search
me. _I’ve nothing to be afraid of_.”
At this moment there was a tap at the door. The inspector went to
it. His face brightened when he saw who it was.
“Ah!” he said. “That’s rather fortunate. I sent for one of our
female searchers, and she’s just arrived. Perhaps if you wouldn’t
mind going into the room next door.”
He looked at the chambermaid, who stepped across the threshold with
a toss of her head, the searcher following her closely.
The French girl had sunk sobbing into a chair. Poirot was looking
round the room, the main features of which I have made clear by a
sketch.
[A sketch of the bedroom, adjoining maid's room, and corridor.]
“Where does that door lead?” he inquired, nodding his head towards
the one by the window.
“Into the next apartment, I believe,” said the inspector. “It’s
bolted, anyway, on this side.”
Poirot walked across to it, tried it, then drew back the bolt and
tried it again.
“And on the other side as well,” he remarked. “Well, that seems to
rule out that.”
He walked over to the windows, examining each of them in turn.
“And again—nothing. Not even a balcony outside.”
“Even if there were,” said the inspector impatiently, “I don’t see
how that would help us, if the maid never left the room.”
“_Évidemment_,” said Poirot, not disconcerted. “As Mademoiselle is
positive she did not leave the room——”
He was interrupted by the reappearance of the chambermaid and the
police searcher.
“Nothing,” said the latter laconically.
“I should hope not, indeed,” said the chambermaid virtuously. “And
that French hussy ought to be ashamed of herself taking away an
honest girl’s character!”
“There, there, my girl; that’s all right,” said the inspector,
opening the door. “Nobody suspects you. You go along and get on
with your work.”
The chambermaid went unwillingly.
“Going to search _her_?” she demanded, pointing at Célestine.
“Yes, yes!” He shut the door on her and turned the key.
Célestine accompanied the searcher into the small room in her turn.
A few minutes later she also returned. Nothing had been found on
her.
The inspector’s face grew graver.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come along with me all the
same, miss.” He turned to Mrs. Opalsen. “I’m sorry, madam, but all
the evidence points that way. If she’s not got them on her, they’re
hidden somewhere about the room.”
Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and clung to Poirot’s arm.
The latter bent and whispered something in the girl’s ear. She
looked up at him doubtfully.
“_Si, si, mon enfant_—I assure you it is better not to resist.”
Then he turned to the inspector. “You permit, monsieur? A little
experiment—purely for my own satisfaction.”
“Depends on what it is,” replied the police officer non-committally.
Poirot addressed Célestine once more.
“You have told us that you went into your room to fetch a reel of
cotton. Whereabouts was it?”
“On the top of the chest of drawers, monsieur.”
“And the scissors?”
“They also.”
“Would it be troubling you too much, mademoiselle, to ask you to
repeat those two actions? You were sitting here with your work,
you say?”
Célestine sat down, and then, at a sign from Poirot, rose, passed
into the adjoining room, took up an object from the chest of
drawers, and returned.
Poirot divided his attention between her movements and a large
turnip of a watch which he held in the palm of his hand.
“Again, if you please, mademoiselle.”
At the conclusion of the second performance, he made a note in his
pocket-book, and returned the watch to his pocket.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. And you, monsieur,”—he bowed to the
inspector—“for your courtesy.”
The inspector seemed somewhat entertained by this excessive
politeness. Célestine departed in a flood of tears, accompanied by
the woman and the plain-clothes official.
Then, with a brief apology to Mrs. Opalsen, the inspector set to
work to ransack the room. He pulled out drawers, opened cupboards,
completely unmade the bed, and tapped the floor. Mr. Opalsen looked
on sceptically.
“You really think you will find them?”
“Yes, sir. It stands to reason. She hadn’t time to take them out
of the room. The lady’s discovering the robbery so soon upset her
plans. No, they’re here right enough. One of the two must have
hidden them—and it’s very unlikely for the chambermaid to have done
so.”
“More than unlikely—impossible!” said Poirot quietly.
“Eh?” The inspector stared.
Poirot smiled modestly.
“I will demonstrate. Hastings, my good friend, take my watch in
your hand—with care. It is a family heirloom! Just now I timed
Mademoiselle’s movements—her first absence from the room was of
twelve seconds, her second of fifteen. Now observe my actions.
Madame will have the kindness to give me the key of the jewel-case.
I thank you. My friend Hastings will have the kindness to say
‘Go!’”
“Go!” I said.
With almost incredible swiftness, Poirot wrenched open the drawer
of the dressing-table, extracted the jewel-case, fitted the key in
the lock, opened the case, selected a piece of jewellery, shut and
locked the case, and returned it to the drawer, which he pushed to
again. His movements were like lightning.
“Well, _mon ami_?” he demanded of me breathlessly.
“Forty-six seconds,” I replied.
“You see?” He looked round. “There would not have been time for
the chambermaid even to take the necklace out, far less hide it.”
“Then that settles it on the maid,” said the inspector with
satisfaction, and returned to his search. He passed into the maid’s
bedroom next door.
Poirot was frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly he shot a question at
Mr. Opalsen.
“This necklace—it was, without doubt, insured?”
Mr. Opalsen looked a trifle surprised at the question.
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that is so.”
“But what does that matter?” broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. “It’s
my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same.”
“I comprehend, madame,” said Poirot soothingly. “I comprehend
perfectly. To _la femme_ sentiment is everything—is it not so? But
monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless
find some slight consolation in the fact.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly.
“Still——”
He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He
came in dangling something from his fingers.
With a cry, Mrs. Opalsen heaved herself up from her chair. She was
a changed woman.
“Oh, oh, my necklace!”
She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round.
“Where was it?” demanded Opalsen.
“Maid’s bed. In among the springs of the wire mattress. She must
have stolen it and hidden it there before the chambermaid arrived
on the scene.”
“You permit, madame?” said Poirot gently. He took the necklace from
her and examined it closely; then handed it back with a bow.
“I’m afraid, madam, you’ll have to hand it over to us for the time
being,” said the inspector. “We shall want it for the charge. But
it shall be returned to you as soon as possible.”
Mr. Opalsen frowned.
“Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Just a formality.”
“Oh, let him take it, Ed!” cried his wife. “I’d feel safer if he
did. I shouldn’t sleep a wink thinking some one else might try and
get hold of it. That wretched girl! And I would never have believed
it of her.”
“There, there, my dear, don’t take on so.”
I felt a gentle pressure on my arm. It was Poirot.
“Shall we slip away, my friend? I think our services are no longer
needed.”
Once outside, however, he hesitated, and then, much to my surprise,
he remarked:
“I should rather like to see the room next door.”
The door was not locked, and we entered. The room, which was a
large double one, was unoccupied. Dust lay about rather noticeably,
and my sensitive friend gave a characteristic grimace as he ran
his finger round a rectangular mark on a table near the window.
“The _service_ leaves to be desired,” he observed dryly.
He was staring thoughtfully out of the window, and seemed to have
fallen into a brown study.
“Well?” I demanded impatiently. “What did we come in here for?”
He started.
“_Je vous demande pardon, mon ami_. I wished to see if the door
was really bolted on this side also.”
“Well,” I said, glancing at the door which communicated with the
room we had just left, “it _is_ bolted.”
Poirot nodded. He still seemed to be thinking.
“And, anyway,” I continued, “what does it matter? The case is over.
I wish you’d had more chance of distinguishing yourself. But it
was the kind of case that even a stiff-backed idiot like that
inspector couldn’t go wrong over.”
Poirot shook his head.
“The case is not over, my friend. It will not be over until we find
out who stole the pearls.”
“But the maid did!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why,” I stammered, “they were found—actually in her mattress.”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said Poirot impatiently. “Those were not the pearls.”
“What?”
“Imitation, _mon ami_.”
The statement took my breath away. Poirot was smiling placidly.
“The good inspector obviously knows nothing of jewels. But presently
there will be a fine hullabaloo!”
“Come!” I cried, dragging at his arm.
“Where?”
“We must tell the Opalsens at once.”
“I think not.”
“But that poor woman——”
“_Eh bien_; that poor woman, as you call her, will have a much
better night believing the jewels to be safe.”
“But the thief may escape with them!”
“As usual, my friend, you speak without reflection. How do you know
that the pearls Mrs. Opalsen locked up so carefully to-night were
not the false ones, and that the real robbery did not take place
at a much earlier date?”
“Oh!” I said, bewildered.
“Exactly,” said Poirot, beaming. “We start again.”
He led the way out of the room, paused a moment as though
considering, and then walked down to the end of the corridor,
stopping outside the small den where the chambermaids and valets
of the respective floors congregated. Our particular chambermaid
appeared to be holding a small court there, and to be retailing
her late experiences to an appreciative audience. She stopped in
the middle of a sentence. Poirot bowed with his usual politeness.
“Excuse that I derange you, but I shall be obliged if you will
unlock for me the door of Mr. Opalsen’s room.”
The woman rose willingly, and we accompanied her down the passage
again. Mr. Opalsen’s room was on the other side of the corridor,
its door facing that of his wife’s room. The chambermaid unlocked
it with her pass-key, and we entered.
As she was about to depart Poirot detained her.
“One moment; have you ever seen among the effects of Mr. Opalsen
a card like this?”
He held out a plain white card, rather highly glazed and uncommon
in appearance. The maid took it and scrutinized it carefully.
“No, sir, I can’t say I have. But, anyway, the valet has most to
do with the gentlemen’s rooms.”
“I see. Thank you.”