The Plymouth Express Affair
“‘Very well, ma’am,’ I says. It wasn’t my place to ask questions, but
I thought it very strange.”
“It was unlike your mistress, eh?”
“Very unlike her, sir.”
“What did you think?”
“Well sir, I thought it was to do with the gentleman in the carriage.
She didn’t speak to him, but she turned round once or twice as though
to ask him if she was doing right.”
“But you didn’t see the gentleman’s face?”
“No sir; he stood with his back to me all the time.”
“Can you describe him at all?”
“He had on a light fawn overcoat, and a traveling cap. He was tall and
slender, like, and the back of his head was dark.”
“You didn’t know him?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so, sir.”
“It was not your master, Mr. Carrington, by any chance?”
Mason looked rather startled.
“Oh! I don’t think so, sir!”
“But you are not _sure_?”
“It was about the master’s build, sir—but I never thought of it being
him. We so seldom saw him. I couldn’t say it _wasn’t_ him!”
Poirot picked up a pin from the carpet, and frowned at it severely;
then he continued: “Would it be possible for the man to have entered
the train at Bristol before you reached the carriage?”
Mason considered.
“Yes sir, I think it would. My compartment was very crowded, and it
was some minutes before I could get out—and then there was a very
large crowd on the platform, and that delayed me too. But he’d only
have had a minute or two to speak to the mistress, that way. I took it
for granted that he’d come along the corridor.”
“That is more probable, certainly.”
He paused, still frowning.
“You know how the mistress was dressed, sir?”
“The papers give a few details, but I would like you to confirm them.”
“She was wearing a white fox fur toque, sir, with a white spotted
veil, and a blue frieze coat and skirt—the shade of blue they call
electric.”
“H’m, rather striking.”
“Yes,” remarked Halliday. “Inspector Japp is in hopes that that may
help us to fix the spot where the crime took place. Anyone who saw her
would remember her.”
“_Précisément!_ —Thank you, mademoiselle.” The maid left the room.
“Well!” Poirot got up briskly. “That is all I can do here—except,
monsieur, that I would ask you to tell me everything—but
_everything_!”
“I have done so.”
“You are sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then there is nothing more to be said. I must decline the case.”
“Why?”
“Because you have not been frank with me.”
“I assure you—”
“No, you are keeping something back.”
* * * * *
There was a moment’s pause, and then Halliday drew a paper from his
pocket and handed it to my friend.
“I guess that’s what you’re after, Monsieur Poirot—though how you know
about it fairly gets my goat!”
Poirot smiled, and unfolded the paper. It was a letter written in thin
sloping handwriting. Poirot read it aloud.
“‘Chère Madame:
“‘It is with infinite pleasure that I look forward to the
felicity of meeting you again. After your so amiable reply to
my letter, I can hardly restrain my impatience. I have never
forgotten those days in Paris. It is most cruel that you
should be leaving London tomorrow. However, before very long,
and perhaps sooner than you think, I shall have the joy of
beholding once more the lady whose image has ever reigned
supreme in my heart.
“‘Believe, chère madame, all the assurances of my most devoted
and unaltered sentiments—
“‘Armand de la Rochefour.’”
Poirot handed the letter back to Halliday with a bow.
“I fancy, monsieur, that you did not know that your daughter intended
renewing her acquaintance with the Count de la Rochefour?”
“It came as a thunderbolt to me! I found this letter in my daughter’s
handbag. As you probably know, Monsieur Poirot, this so-called count
is an adventurer of the worst type.”
Poirot nodded.
“But what I want to know is how you knew of the existence of this
letter?”
My friend smiled. “Monsieur, I did not. But to track footmarks, and
recognize cigarette-ash is not sufficient for a detective. He must
also be a good psychologist! I knew that you disliked and mistrusted
your son-in-law. He benefits by your daughter’s death; the maid’s
description of the mysterious man bears a sufficient resemblance to
him. Yet you are not keen on his track! Why? Surely because your
suspicions lie in another direction. Therefore you were keeping
something back.”
“You’re right, Monsieur Poirot. I was sure of Rupert’s guilt until I
found this letter. It unsettled me horribly.”
“Yes. The Count says: ‘Before very long, and perhaps sooner than you
think.’ Obviously he would not want to wait until you should get wind
of his reappearance. Was it he who traveled down from London by the
twelve-fourteen, and came along the corridor to your daughter’s
compartment? The Count de la Rochefour is also, if I remember rightly,
tall and dark!”
The millionaire nodded.
“Well, monsieur, I will wish you good day. Scotland Yard, has, I
presume, a list of the jewels?”
“Yes, I believe Inspector Japp is here now if you would like to see
him.”
* * * * *
Japp was an old friend of ours, and greeted Poirot with a sort of
affectionate contempt.
“And how are you, monsieur? No bad feeling between us, though we
_have_ got our different ways of looking at things. How are the
‘little gray cells,’ eh? Going strong?”
Poirot beamed upon him. “They function, my good Japp; assuredly they
do!”
“Then that’s all right. Think it was the Honorable Rupert, or a crook?
We’re keeping an eye on all the regular places, of course. We shall
know if the shiners are disposed of, and of course whoever did it
isn’t going to keep them to admire their sparkle. Not likely! I’m
trying to find out where Rupert Carrington was yesterday. Seems a bit
of a mystery about it. I’ve got a man watching him.”
“A great precaution, but perhaps a day late,” suggested Poirot gently.
“You always will have your joke, Monsieur Poirot. Well, I’m off to
Paddington. Bristol, Weston, Taunton, that’s my beat. So long.”
“You will come round and see me this evening, and tell me the result?”
“Sure thing, if I’m back.”
“That good Inspector believes in matter in motion,” murmured Poirot as
our friend departed. “He travels; he measures footprints; he collects
mud and cigarette-ash! He is extremely busy! He is zealous beyond
words! And if I mentioned psychology to him, do you know what he would
do, my friend? He would smile! He would say to himself: ‘Poor old
Poirot! He ages! He grows senile!’ Japp is the ‘younger generation
knocking on the door.’ And _ma foi!_ They are so busy knocking that
they do not notice that the door is open!”
“And what are you going to do?”
“As we have _carte blanche_, I shall expend threepence in ringing up
the Ritz—where you may have noticed our Count is staying. After that,
as my feet are a little damp, and I have sneezed twice, I shall return
to my rooms and make myself a _tisano_ over the spirit lamp!”
* * * * *
I did not see Poirot again until the following morning. I found him
placidly finishing his breakfast.
“Well?” I inquired eagerly. “What has happened?”
“Nothing.”
“But Japp?”
“I have not seen him.”
“The Count?”
“He left the Ritz the day before yesterday.”
“The day of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Then that settles it! Rupert Carrington is cleared.”
“Because the Count de la Rochefour has left the Ritz? You go too fast,
my friend.”
“Anyway, he must be followed, arrested! But what could be his motive?”
“One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry is a very good motive
for anyone. No, the question to my mind is: why kill her? Why not
simply steal the jewels? She would not prosecute.”
“Why not?”
“Because she is a woman, _mon ami_. She once loved this man. Therefore
she would suffer her loss in silence. And the Count, who is an
extremely good psychologist where women are concerned,—hence his
successes,—would know that perfectly well! On the other hand, if
Rupert Carrington killed her, why take the jewels, which would
incriminate him fatally?”
“As a blind.”
“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his
knock.”
The Inspector was beaming good-humoredly.
“Morning, Poirot. Only just got back. I’ve done some good work! And
you?”
“Me, I have arranged my ideas,” replied Poirot placidly.
Japp laughed heartily.
“Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to
me. “That wont do for us young folk,” he said aloud.
“_Quel dommage?_” Poirot inquired.
“Well, do you want to hear what I’ve done?”
“You permit me to make a guess? You have found the knife with which
the crime was committed by the side of the line between Weston and
Taunton, and you have interviewed the paper-boy who spoke to Mrs.
Carrington at Weston!”
* * * * *
Japp’s jaw fell. “How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was
those almighty ‘little gray cells’ of yours!”
“I am glad you admit for once that they are _all mighty_! Tell me, did
she give the paper-boy a shilling for himself?”
“No, it was half a crown!” Japp recovered his temper and grinned.
“Pretty extravagant, these rich Americans!”
“And in consequence the boy did not forget her?”
“Not he. Half-crowns don’t come his way every day. She hailed him and
bought two magazines. One had a picture of a girl in blue on the
cover. ‘That’ll match me,’ she said. Oh! he remembered her perfectly.
Well, that was enough for me. By the doctor’s evidence, the crime
_must_ have been committed before Taunton. I guessed they’d throw the
knife away at once, and I walked down the line looking for it; and
sure enough, there it was. I made inquiries at Taunton about our man,
but of course it’s a big station, and it wasn’t likely they’d notice
him. He probably got back to London by a later train.”
Poirot nodded. “Very likely.”
“But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the
jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of
the regular lot. Who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know—except that he was a short man.”
Japp stared. “Well, you’re right there. He’s short enough. It was Red
Narky.”
“Who on earth is Red Narky?” I asked.
“A particularly sharp jewel-thief, sir. And not one to stick at
murder. Usually works with a woman—Gracie Kidd; but she doesn’t seem
to be in it this time—unless she’s got off to Holland with the rest of
the swag.”
“You’ve arrested Narky?”
“Sure thing. But mind you, it’s the other man we want—the man who went
down with Mrs. Carrington in the train. He was the one who planned the
job, right enough. But Narky wont squeal on a pal.”
I noticed that Poirot’s eyes had become very green.
“I think,” he said gently, “that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all
right.”
“One of your little ideas, eh?” Japp eyed Poirot sharply. “Wonderful
how you manage to deliver the goods sometimes, at your age and all.
Devil’s own luck, of course.”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” murmured my friend. “Hastings, my hat. And the
brush. So! My galoshes if it still rains! We must not undo the good
work of that _tisano_. Au revoir, Japp!”
“Good luck to you, Poirot.”
Poirot hailed the first taxi we met, and directed the driver to Park
Lane.
* * * * *
When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid
the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he
made a request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs.
We went up to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat
bedroom.