Poirot Investigates
the road, and seeing it apparently deserted he took a small object
from his pocket and threw it over the hedge. Then he went on
towards the station. Now, the object he had thrown over the hedge
had fallen with a slight ‘chink’ which aroused the curiosity of
the human derelict in the ditch. He investigated and, after a short
search, discovered the ring! That is Kellett’s story. It’s only
fair to say that Lowen denies it utterly, and of course the word
of a man like Kellett can’t be relied upon in the slightest. It’s
within the bounds of possibility that he met Davenheim in the lane
and robbed and murdered him.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Very improbable, _mon ami_. He had no means of disposing of the
body. It would have been found by now. Secondly, the open way in
which he pawned the ring makes it unlikely that he did murder to
get it. Thirdly, your sneak-thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly,
as he has been in prison since Saturday, it would be too much of
a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a description of
Lowen.”
Japp nodded. “I don’t say you’re not right. But all the same, you
won’t get a jury to take much note of a jailbird’s evidence. What
seems odd to me is that Lowen couldn’t find a cleverer way of
disposing of the ring.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “Well, after all, if it were found
in the neighbourhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself
had dropped it.”
“But why remove it from the body at all?” I cried.
“There might be a reason for that,” said Japp. “Do you know that
just beyond the lake, a little gate leads out on to the hill, and
not three minutes’ walk brings you to—what do you think?—a _lime
kiln_.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “You mean that the lime which destroyed
the body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring?”
“Exactly.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that that explains everything. What a
horrible crime!”
By common consent we both turned and looked at Poirot. He seemed
lost in reflection, his brow knitted, as though with some supreme
mental effort. I felt that at last his keen intellect was asserting
itself. What would his first words be? We were not long left in
doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude relaxed, and
turning to Japp, he asked:
“Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. and Mrs. Davenheim
occupied the same bedroom?”
The question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment
we both stared in silence. Then Japp burst into a laugh. “Good
Lord, Monsieur Poirot, I thought you were coming out with something
startling. As to your question, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You could find out?” asked Poirot with curious persistence.
“Oh, certainly—if you _really_ want to know.”
“_Merci, mon ami_. I should be obliged if you would make a point
of it.”
Japp stared at him a few minutes longer, but Poirot seemed to have
forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me, and
murmuring, “Poor old fellow! War’s been too much for him!” gently
withdrew from the room.
As Poirot still seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper,
and amused myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend’s voice
aroused me. He had come out of his reverie, and was looking brisk
and alert.
“_Que faites-vous là, mon ami?_”
“I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of
interest in this affair.”
“You become methodical—at last!” said Poirot approvingly.
I concealed my pleasure. “Shall I read them to you?”
“By all means.”
I cleared my throat.
“‘One: All the evidence points to Lowen having been the man who
forced the safe.
“‘Two: He had a grudge against Davenheim.
“‘Three: He lied in his first statement that he had never left the
study.
“‘Four: If you accept Billy Kellett’s story as true, Lowen is
unmistakably implicated.’”
I paused. “Well?” I asked, for I felt that I had put my finger on
all the vital facts.
Poirot looked at me pityingly, shaking his head very gently. “_Mon
pauvre ami!_ But it is that you have not the gift! The important
detail, you appreciate him never! Also, your reasoning is false.”
“How?”
“Let me take your four points.
“One: Mr. Lowen could not possibly know that he would have the
chance to open the safe. He came for a business interview. He could
not know beforehand that Mr. Davenheim would be absent posting a
letter, and that he would consequently be alone in the study!”
“He might have seized his opportunity,” I suggested.
“And the tools? City gentlemen do not carry round housebreaker’s
tools on the off chance! And one could not cut into that safe with
a penknife, _bien entendu_!”
“Well, what about Number Two?”
“You say Lowen had a grudge against Mr. Davenheim. What you mean
is that he had once or twice got the better of him. And presumably
those transactions were entered into with the view of benefiting
himself. In any case you do not as a rule bear a grudge against a
man you have got the better of—it is more likely to be the other
way about. Whatever grudge there might have been would have been
on Mr. Davenheim’s side.”
“Well, you can’t deny that he lied about never having left the
study?”
“No. But he may have been frightened. Remember, the missing man’s
clothes had just been discovered in the lake. Of course, as usual,
he would have done better to speak the truth.”
“And the fourth point?”
“I grant you that. If Kellett’s story is true, Lowen is undeniably
implicated. That is what makes the affair so very interesting.”
“Then I did appreciate _one_ vital fact?”
“Perhaps—but you have entirely overlooked the two most important
points, the ones which undoubtedly hold the clue to the whole
matter.”
“And pray, what are they?”
“One, the passion which has grown upon Mr. Davenheim in the last
few years for buying jewellery. Two, his trip to Buenos Ayres last
autumn.”
“Poirot, you are joking!”
“I am most serious. Ah, sacred thunder, but I hope Japp will not
forget my little commission.”
But the detective, entering into the spirit of the joke, had
remembered it so well that a telegram was handed to Poirot about
eleven o’clock the next day. At his request I opened it and read
it out:
“‘Husband and wife have occupied separate rooms since last winter.’”
“Aha!” cried Poirot. “And now we are in mid June! All is solved!”
I stared at him.
“You have no moneys in the bank of Davenheim and Salmon, _mon
ami_?”
“No,” I said, wondering. “Why?”
“Because I should advise you to withdraw it—before it is too
late.”
“Why, what do you expect?”
“I expect a big smash in a few days—perhaps sooner. Which reminds
me, we will return the compliment of a _dépêche_ to Japp. A pencil,
I pray you, and a form. _Voilà!_ ‘Advise you to withdraw any money
deposited with firm in question.’ That will intrigue him, the good
Japp! His eyes will open wide—wide! He will not comprehend in the
slightest—until to-morrow, or the next day!”
I remained sceptical, but the morrow forced me to render tribute
to my friend’s remarkable powers. In every paper was a huge headline
telling of the sensational failure of the Davenheim bank. The
disappearance of the famous financier took on a totally different
aspect in the light of the revelation of the financial affairs of
the bank.
Before we were half-way through breakfast, the door flew open and
Japp rushed in. In his left hand was a paper; in his right was
Poirot’s telegram, which he banged down on the table in front of
my friend.
“How did you know, Monsieur Poirot? How the blazes could you know?”
Poirot smiled placidly at him. “Ah, _mon ami_, after your wire, it
was a certainty! From the commencement, see you, it struck me that
the safe burglary was somewhat remarkable. Jewels, ready money,
bearer bonds—all so conveniently arranged for—whom? Well, the good
Monsieur Davenheim was of those who ‘look after Number One’ as your
saying goes! It seemed almost certain that it was arranged
for—himself! Then his passion of late years for buying jewellery!
How simple! The funds he embezzled, he converted into jewels, very
likely replacing them in turn with paste duplicates, and so he put
away in a safe place, under another name, a considerable fortune
to be enjoyed all in good time when every one has been thrown off
the track. His arrangements completed, he makes an appointment with
Mr. Lowen (who has been imprudent enough in the past to cross the
great man once or twice), drills a hole in the safe, leaves orders
that the guest is to be shown into the study, and walks out of the
house—where?” Poirot stopped, and stretched out his hand for
another boiled egg. He frowned. “It is really insupportable,” he
murmured, “that every hen lays an egg of a different size! What
symmetry can there be on the breakfast table? At least they should
sort them in dozens at the shop!”
“Never mind the eggs,” said Japp impatiently. “Let ’em lay ’em
square if they like. Tell us where our customer went to when he
left The Cedars—that is, if you know!”
“_Eh bien_, he went to his hiding-place. Ah, this Monsieur
Davenheim, there may be some malformation in his grey cells, but
they are of the first quality!”
“Do you know where he is hiding?”
“Certainly! It is most ingenious.”
“For the Lord’s sake, tell us, then!”
Poirot gently collected every fragment of shell from his plate,
placed them in the egg-cup, and reversed the empty egg-shell on
top of them. This little operation concluded, he smiled on the neat
effect, and then beamed affectionately on us both.
“Come, my friends, you are men of intelligence. Ask yourselves the
question which I asked myself. ‘If I were this man, where should
_I_ hide?’ Hastings, what do you say?”
“Well,” I said, “I’m rather inclined to think I’d not do a bolt at
all. I’d stay in London—in the heart of things, travel by tubes
and buses; ten to one I’d never be recognized. There’s safety in
a crowd.”
Poirot turned inquiringly to Japp.
“I don’t agree. Get clear away at once—that’s the only chance. I
would have had plenty of time to prepare things beforehand. I’d
have a yacht waiting, with steam up, and I’d be off to one of the
most out-of-the-way corners of the world before the hue and cry
began!”
We both looked at Poirot. “What do _you_ say, monsieur?”
For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted
across his face.
“My friends, if _I_ were hiding from the police, do you know
_where_ I should hide? _In a prison!_”
“_What?_”
“You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison,
so you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already
there!”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman.
Nevertheless I think that if you took her to Bow Street and
confronted her with the man Billy Kellett, she would recognize him!
In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache
and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman
nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may
be deceived!”
“Billy Kellett? But he’s known to the police!”
“Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his
alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Ayres last autumn—he
was creating the character of Billy Kellett, ‘doing three months,’
so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came.
He was playing, remember, for a large fortune, as well as liberty.
It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only——”
“Yes?”
“_Eh bien_, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had
to _make up as himself_ again, and to sleep with a false beard is
not easy—it invites detection! He cannot risk continuing to share
the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the
last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos