The Plymouth Express Affair
Poirot’s eyes roved round the room and fastened themselves on a small
black trunk. He knelt in front of it, scrutinized the labels on it,
and took a small twist of wire from his pocket.
“Ask Mr. Halliday if he will be so kind as to mount to me here,” he
said over his shoulder to the footman.
(It is suggested that the reader pause in his perusal of the story at
this point, make his own solution of the mystery—and then see how
close he comes to that of the author.—The Editors.)
The man departed, and Poirot gently coaxed the lock of the trunk with
a practiced hand. In a few minutes the lock gave, and he raised the
lid of the trunk. Swiftly he began rummaging among the clothes it
contained, flinging them out on the floor.
There was a heavy step on the stairs, and Halliday entered the room.
“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.
“I was looking, monsieur, for _this_.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk
a coat and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox
fur.
“What are you doing with my trunk?” I turned to see that the maid,
Jane Mason, had just entered the room.
“If you will just shut the door, Hastings. Thank you. Yes, and stand
with your back against it. Now, Mr. Halliday, let me introduce you to
Grace Kidd, otherwise Jane Mason, who will shortly rejoin her
accomplice, Red Narky, under the kind escort of Japp.”
* * * * *
“It was of the most simple.” Poirot waved a deprecating hand, then
helped himself to more caviare. It is not every day that one lunches
with a millionaire.
“It was the maid’s insistence on the clothes that her mistress was
wearing that first struck me. Why was she so anxious that our
attention should be directed to them? I reflected that we had only the
maid’s word for the mysterious man in the carriage at Bristol. As far
as the doctor’s evidence went, Mrs. Carrington might easily have been
murdered _before_ reaching Bristol. But if so, then the maid must be
an accomplice. And if she were an accomplice, she would not wish this
point to rest on her evidence alone. The clothes Mrs. Carrington was
wearing were of a striking nature. A maid usually has a good deal of
choice as to what her mistress shall wear. Now if, after Bristol,
anyone saw a lady in a bright blue coat and skirt, and a fur toque, he
will be quite ready to swear he has seen Mrs. Carrington.
“I began to reconstruct. The maid would provide herself with duplicate
clothes. She and her accomplice chloroform and stab Mrs. Carrington
between London and Bristol, probably taking advantage of a tunnel. Her
body is rolled under the seat; the maid takes her place. At Weston she
must make herself noticed. How? In all probability, a newspaper-boy
will be selected. She will insure his remembering her by giving him a
large tip. She also drew his attention to the color of her dress by a
remark about one of the magazines. After leaving Weston, she throws
the knife out of the window to mark the place where the crime
presumably occurred, and changes her clothes, or buttons a long
mackintosh over them. At Taunton she leaves the train and returns to
Bristol as soon as possible, where her accomplice has duly left the
luggage in the cloak-room. He hands over the ticket and himself
returns to London. She waits on the platform, carrying out her rôle,
goes to a hotel for the night and returns to town in the morning
exactly as she said.
“When Japp returned from his expedition, he confirmed all my
deductions. He also told me that a well-known crook was passing the
jewels. I knew that whoever it was would be the exact opposite of the
man Jane Mason described. When I heard that it was Red Narky, who
always worked with Gracie Kidd—well, I knew just where to find her.”
“And the Count?”
“The more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that he had
nothing to do with it. That gentleman is much too careful of his own
skin to risk murder. It would be out of keeping with his character.”
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Halliday. “I owe you a big debt. And the
check I write after lunch wont go near to settling it.”
Poirot smiled modestly, and murmured to me: “The good Japp, he shall
get the official credit, all right, but though he has got his Gracie
Kidd, I think that I, as the Americans say, have got his goat!”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1924
issue of The Blue Book Magazine.]