Poirot Investigates
rose from a chair by the window. It was Lord Yardly. He looked
haggard and distraught.
“I got your wire and came up at once. Look here, I’ve been round
to Hoffberg, and they know nothing about that man of theirs last
night, or the wire either. Do you think that——”
Poirot held up his hand.
“My excuses! I sent that wire, and hired the gentleman in question.”
“_You_—but why? What?” The nobleman spluttered impotently.
“My little idea was to bring things to a head,” explained Poirot
placidly.
“Bring things to a head! Oh, my God!” cried Lord Yardly.
“And the ruse succeeded,” said Poirot cheerfully. “Therefore,
_milord_, I have much pleasure in returning you—this!” With a
dramatic gesture he produced a glittering object. It was a great
diamond.
“The Star of the East,” gasped Lord Yardly. “But I don’t
understand——”
“No?” said Poirot. “It makes no matter. Believe me, it was necessary
for the diamond to be stolen. I promised you that it should be
preserved to you, and I have kept my word. You must permit me to
keep my little secret. Convey, I beg of you, the assurances of my
deepest respect to Lady Yardly, and tell her how pleased I am to
be able to restore her jewel to her. What _beau temps_, is it not?
Good day, _milord_.”
And smiling and talking, the amazing little man conducted the
bewildered nobleman to the door. He returned gently rubbing his
hands.
“Poirot,” I said. “Am I quite demented?”
“No, _mon ami_, but you are, as always, in a mental fog.”
“How did you get the diamond.”
“From Mr. Rolf.”
“Rolf?”
“_Mais oui!_ The warning letters, the Chinaman, the article in
_Society Gossip_, all sprang from the ingenious brain of Mr. Rolf!
The two diamonds, supposed to be so miraculously alike—bah! they
did not exist. There was only _one_ diamond, my friend! Originally
in the Yardly collection, for three years it has been in the
possession of Mr. Rolf. He stole it this morning with the assistance
of a touch of grease paint at the corner of each eye! Ah, I must
see him on the film, he is indeed an artist, _celui-là_!
“But why should he steal his own diamond?” I asked, puzzled.
“For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive.”
“Lady Yardly?”
“You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband
was amusing himself elsewhere. Mr. Rolf was handsome, he had an
air about him of romance. But _au fond_, he is very business-like,
_ce monsieur_! He made love to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed
her. I taxed the lady with the truth the other night, and she
admitted it. She swore that she had only been indiscreet, and I
believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that could
be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the
threat of a divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her
children, she agreed to all he wished. She had no money of her own,
and she was forced to permit him to substitute a paste replica for
the real stone. The coincidence of the date of the appearance of
‘the Western Star’ struck me at once. All goes well. Lord Yardly
prepares to range himself—to settle down. And then comes the menace
of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be
discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory
Rolf who has just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising
to arrange all—and prepares for a double robbery. In this way he
will quiet the lady, who might conceivably tell all to her husband,
an affair which would not suit our blackmailer at all, he will have
£50,000 insurance money (aha, you had forgotten that!), and he will
still have the diamond! At this point I put my finger in the pie.
The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I
felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery—and does it
very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What
happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the
door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She has
already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs——”
“But we saw the necklace round her neck!” I objected.
“I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it
where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the
door beforehand is child’s play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read
of the robbery, he arranged his own little comedy. And very well
he played it!”
“What did you say to him?” I asked with lively curiosity.
“I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I
was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not
immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more
little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!”
I pondered the matter.
“It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond
through no fault of her own.”
“Bah!” said Poirot brutally. “She has a magnificent advertisement.
That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is
different. _Bonne mère, très femme!_”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on
femininity. “I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate
letters.”
“_Pas du tout_,” said Poirot briskly. “She came by the advice of
Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that
Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and
she changed her mind, jumping at a pretext that _you_, my friend,
offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that _you_
told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your
words offered.”
“I don’t believe it,” I cried, stung.
“_Si, si, mon ami_, it is a pity that you study not the psychology.
She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, _never_
does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it
would be more prudent to do so!”
“It’s all very well,” I said, my anger rising, “but you’ve made a
perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well
to try and explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!”
“But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend. I had not the heart
to shatter your illusions.”
“It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ but how you enrage yourself for nothing, _mon ami_!”
“I’m fed up!” I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an
absolute laughing-stock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp
lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had
encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself!
II
The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor
I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return
found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.
“_A la bonne heure_, Hastings. I feared you would not have returned
in time to accompany me.”
“You are called away on a case, then?”
“Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the
affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance
Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr. Maltravers
who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum
of fifty thousand pounds.”
“Yes?” I said, much interested.
“There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In
the event of his committing suicide within a year the premiums
would be forfeited. Mr. Maltravers was duly examined by the
Company’s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the
prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However,
on Wednesday last—the day before yesterday—the body of Mr.
Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon
Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of
internal hæmorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable,
but sinister rumours as to Mr. Maltravers’ financial position have
been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained
beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentleman stood upon
the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters matters considerably.
Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he
got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying
the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and then
committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my
friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has
asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him,
I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had
been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure
may always be translated as the inability of the local G.P. to
discover what his patient really did die of, but a hæmorrhage seems
fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries.
Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi
to Liverpool Street.”
About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the
little station of Marsdon Leigh. Inquiries at the station yielded
the information that Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot
decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.
“What is our plan of campaign?” I asked.
“First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there
is only one doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr. Ralph Bernard. Ah, here
we are at his house.”
The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back
a little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor’s
name. We passed up the path and rang the bell.
We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor’s
consulting hour, and for the moment there were no patients waiting
for him. Dr. Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and
stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner.
Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit,
adding that Insurance Companies were bound to investigate fully in
a case of this kind.
“Of course, of course,” said Dr. Bernard vaguely. “I suppose, as
he was such a rich man, his life was insured for a big sum?”
“You consider him a rich man, doctor?”
The doctor looked rather surprised.
“Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a
pretty big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very
cheap.”
“I understand that he had had considerable losses of late,” said
Poirot, watching the doctor narrowly.
The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.
“Is that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there
is this life insurance. A very beautiful and charming young
creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe. A mass of
nerves, poor thing. I have tried to spare her all I can, but of
course the shock was bound to be considerable.”
“You had been attending Mr. Maltravers recently?”
“My dear sir, I never attended him.”
“What?”
“I understand Mr. Maltravers was a Christian Scientist—or something
of that kind.”
“But you examined the body?”
“Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners.”
“And the cause of death was clear?”
“Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding
must have been internal.”
“Was he still lying where he had been found?”
“Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of
a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a
small rook rifle lay beside him. The hæmorrhage must have occurred
quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt.”
“No question of his having been shot, eh?”
“My dear sir!”
“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly. “But, if my memory is not
at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a
verdict of heart failure—altering it when the local constable
pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!”
“You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr. Maltravers,”
said Dr. Bernard dryly. “Now, gentlemen, if there is nothing
further——”