死人の鏡（短編集：1937）｜謎の盗難事件

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Sir George grunted:

“Julia’s  a  damned  sight  too  fond  of  her  bridge.  Drops  a packet over it. She can’t afford to play as high as she does, and I’ve told her so. The trouble is, Julia’s a born gambler.”

Coming round the table to join his host, he said: “Well, I hope your plan comes off, Charles.”

II

In  the  drawing  room  conversation  had  flagged  more  than once.  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  was  usually  at  a  disadvantage  when left  alone  with  members  of  her  own  sex.  That  charming sympathetic   manner   of   hers,   so   much   appreciated   by members of the male sex, did not for some reason or other commend  itself  to  women.  Lady  Julia  was  a  woman  whose manners were either very good or very bad. On this occasion she disliked Mrs. Vanderlyn, and was bored by Mrs. Macatta, and made no secret of her feelings. Conversation languished,  and  might  have  ceased  altogether  but  for  the latter.

Mrs.   Macatta   was   a   woman   of   great   earnestness   of purpose.  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  she  dismissed  immediately  as  a useless and parasitic type. Lady Julia she tried to interest in a forthcoming charity entertainment which she was organizing.  Lady  Julia  answered  vaguely,  stifled  a  yawn  or two   and   retired   into   her   own   inner   preoccupation.  Why didn’t  Charles and  George come?  How tiresome men  were. Her   comments   became   even   more   perfunctory   as   she became absorbed in her own thoughts and worries.

The  three  women  were  sitting  in  silence  when  the  men finally entered the room.

Lord Mayfield thought to himself:

“Julia looks ill tonight. What a mass of nerves the woman is.”

Aloud he said:

“What about a rubber―eh?”

Lady Julia brightened at once. Bridge was as the breath of life to her.

Reggie Carrington entered the room at that minute, and a four  was  arranged.  Lady  Julia,  Mrs.  Vanderlyn,  Sir  George and young Reggie sat down to the card table. Lord Mayfield devoted himself to the task of entertaining Mrs. Macatta.

When  two  rubbers  had  been  played,  Sir  George  looked ostentatiously at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“Hardly worth while beginning another,” he remarked. His wife looked annoyed.

“It’s only a quarter to eleven. A short one.”

“They   never   are,   my   dear,”   said   Sir   George   good-temperedly. “Anyway, Charles and I have some work to do.”

Mrs. Vanderlyn murmured:

“How  important  that  sounds!  I  suppose  you  clever  men who are at the top of things never get a real rest.”

“No forty-eight hour week for us,” said Sir George. Mrs. Vanderlyn murmured:

“You  know, American,  but

I  feel  rather  ashamed  of  myself  as  a  raw I  do  get  so  thrilled  at  meeting  people  who

control the destinies of a country. I expect that seems a very crude point of view to you, Sir George.”

“My dear Mrs. Vanderlyn, I should  never think  of you  as ‘crude’ or ‘raw.’ ”

He  smiled  into  her  eyes.  There  was,  perhaps,  a  hint  of irony  in  the  voice  which  she  did  not  miss.  Adroitly  she turned to Reggie, smiling sweetly into his eyes.

“I’m sorry we’re not continuing our partnership. That was a frightfully clever four no-trump call of yours.”

Flushed and pleased, Reggie mumbled: “Bit of a fluke that it came off.”

“Oh,  no,  it  was  really  a  clever  bit  of  deduction  on  your part.  You’d  deduced  from  the  bidding  exactly  where  the cards must be, and you played accordingly. I thought it was brilliant.”

Lady Julia rose abruptly.

“The woman lays it on with a palette knife,” she thought disgustedly.

Then  her  eyes  softened  as  they  rested  on  her  son.  He believed   it   all.   How   pathetically   young   and   pleased   he looked. How incredibly naïve he was. No wonder he got into scrapes. He was too trusting. The truth of it was he had too sweet a nature. George didn’t understand him in the least. Men were so unsympathetic in their judgments. They forgot that  they  had  ever  been  young  themselves.  George  was much too harsh with Reggie.

Mrs. Macatta had risen. Goodnights were said.

The  three  women  went  out  of  the  room.  Lord  Mayfield helped himself to a drink after giving one to Sir George, then he looked up as Mr. Carlile appeared at the door.

“Get  out  the  files  and  all  the  papers,  will  you,  Carlile? Including the plans and the prints. The Air Marshal and I will be  along  shortly.  We’ll  just  take  a  turn  outside  first,  eh, George? It’s stopped raining.”

Mr. Carlile, turning to depart, murmured an apology as he almost collided with Mrs. Vanderlyn.

She drifted towards them, murmuring: “My book, I was reading it before dinner.”

Reggie sprang forward and held up a book. “Is this it? On the sofa?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you so much.”

She smiled sweetly, said goodnight again and went out of the room.

Sir George had opened one of the French windows. “Beautiful night now,” he announced. “Good idea of yours

to take a turn.” Reggie said:

“Well, goodnight, sir. I’ll be toddling off to bed.” “Goodnight, my boy,” said Lord Mayfield.

Reggie picked up a detective story which he had begun earlier in the evening and left the room.

Lord   Mayfield   and   Sir   George   stepped   out   upon   the terrace.

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  with  a  clear  sky  studded  with stars.

Sir George drew a deep breath.

“Phew, that woman uses a lot of scent,” he remarked. Lord Mayfield laughed.

“Anyway, it’s not cheap scent. One of the most expensive brands on the market, I should say.”

Sir George gave a grimace.

“I suppose one should be thankful for that.”

“You should, indeed. I think a woman smothered in cheap scent is   one   of the   greatest abominations   known to mankind.”

Sir George glanced up at the sky.

“Extraordinary   the   way   it’s   cleared.   I   heard   the   rain beating down when we were at dinner.”

The two men strolled gently along the terrace.

The terrace ran  the whole length  of  the house. Below it the  ground  sloped  gently  away,  permitting  a  magnificent view over the Sussex weald.

Sir George lit a cigar.

“About this metal alloy―” he began.

The talk became technical.

As they approached the far end of the terrace for the fifth time, Lord Mayfield said with a sigh:

“Oh, well, I suppose we’d better get down to it.” “Yes, good bit of work to get through.”

The   two   men   turned,   and   Lord   Mayfield   uttered   a surprised ejaculation.

“Hallo! See that?”

“See what?” asked Sir George.

“Thought I saw someone slip across the terrace from my study window.”

“Nonsense, old boy. I didn’t see anything.” “Well, I did―or I thought I did.”

“Your   eyes   are   playing   tricks   on   you.   I   was   looking straight down the terrace, and I’d have seen anything there was to be seen. There’s precious little I don’t see―even if I do have to hold a newspaper at arm’s length.”

Lord Mayfield chuckled.

“I  can  put  one  over  on  you  there,  George.  I  read  easily without glasses.”

“But you can’t always distinguish the fellow on the other side   of   the   House.   Or   is   that   eyeglass   of   yours   sheer intimidation?”

Laughing, the two men entered Lord Mayfield’s study, the French window of which was open.

Mr.  Carlile  was  busy  arranging  some  papers  in  a  file  by the safe.

He looked up as they entered. “Ha, Carlile, everything ready?”

“Yes, Lord Mayfield, all the papers are on your desk.”

The desk in question was a big important-looking writing table of mahogany set across a corner by the window. Lord

Mayfield  went  over  to  it,  and  began  sorting  through  the various documents laid out.

“Lovely night now,” said Sir George. Mr. Carlile agreed.

“Yes, indeed. Remarkable the way it’s cleared up after the rain.”

Putting away his file, Mr. Carlile asked:

“Will you want me any more tonight, Lord Mayfield?”

“No, I don’t think so, Carlile. I’ll put all these away myself. We shall probably be late. You’d better turn in.”

“Thank   you.  Goodnight,  Lord   Mayfield.  Goodnight,  Sir George.”

“Goodnight, Carlile.”

As   the   secretary   was   about   to   leave   the   room,   Lord Mayfield said sharply:

“Just a minute, Carlile. You’ve forgotten the most important of the lot.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Mayfield.” “The actual plans of the bomber, man.” The secretary stared.

“They’re right on the top, sir.” “They’re nothing of the sort.” “But I’ve just put them there.” “Look for yourself, man.”

With   a   bewildered   expression,   the   young   man   came forward and joined Lord Mayfield at the desk.

Somewhat  impatiently  the Minister indicated  the pile of papers.   Carlile   sorted   through   them,   his   expression   of bewilderment growing.

“You see, they’re not there.” The secretary stammered:

“But―but   it’s   incredible.   I   laid   them   there   not   three minutes ago.”

Lord Mayfield said good-humouredly:

“You must have made a mistake, they must be still in the safe.”

“I don’t see how―I know I put them there!”

Lord  Mayfield  brushed  past  him  to  the  open  safe.  Sir George  joined  them.  A  very  few  minutes  sufficed  to  show that the plans of the bomber were not there.

Dazed  and  unbelieving,  the  three  men  returned  to  the desk and once more turned over the papers.

“My God!” said Mayfield. “They’re gone!” Mr. Carlile cried:

“But it’s impossible!”

“Who’s been in this room?” snapped out the Minister. “No one. No one at all.”

“Look here, Carlile, those plans haven’t vanished into thin air.  Someone  has  taken  them.  Has  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  been  in here?”

“Mrs. Vanderlyn? Oh, no, sir.”

“I’ll back that,” said Carrington. He sniffed the air! “You’d soon smell if she had. That scent of hers.”

“Nobody   has   been   in   here,”   insisted   Carlile.   “I   can’t understand it.”

“Look   here,  Carlile,”  said  Lord  Mayfield.  “Pull   yourself together.  We’ve  got  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  this.  You’re absolutely sure the plans were in the safe?”

“Absolutely.”

“You actually saw them? You didn’t just assume they were among the others?”

“No, no, Lord Mayfield. I saw them. I put them on top of the others on the desk.”

“And since then, you say, nobody has been in the room. Have you been out of the room?”

“No―at least―yes.”

“Ah!” cried Sir George. “Now we’re getting at it!” Lord Mayfield said sharply:

“What on earth―” when Carlile interrupted.

“In  the normal  course of  events, Lord  Mayfield, I  should not,   of   course,   have   dreamt   of   leaving   the   room   when important  papers  were  lying  about,  but  hearing  a  woman scream―”

“A woman scream?” ejaculated Lord Mayfield in a surprised voice.

“Yes, Lord Mayfield. It startled me more than I can say. I was just laying the papers on the desk when I heard it, and naturally I ran out into the hall.”

“Who screamed?”

“Mrs. Vanderlyn’s French maid. She was standing halfway up the stairs, looking very white and upset and shaking all over. She said she had seen a ghost.”

“Seen a ghost?”

“Yes,   a   tall   woman   dressed   all   in   white   who   moved without a sound and floated in the air.”

“What a ridiculous story!”

“Yes, Lord Mayfield, that is what I told her. I must say she seemed rather ashamed of herself. She went off upstairs and I came back in here.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Just a minute or two before you and Sir George came in.” “And you were out of the room―how long?”

The secretary considered.

“Two minutes―at the most three.”

“Long   enough,”   groaned   Lord   Mayfield.   Suddenly   he clutched his friend’s arm.

“George,   that   shadow   I   saw―slinking   away   from  this window.  That  was  it!  As  soon  as  Carlile  left  the  room,  he nipped in, seized the plans and made off.”

“Dirty work,” said Sir George.

Then he seized his friend by the arm.

“Look here, Charles, this is the devil of a business. What the hell are we going to do about it?”

III

“At any rate give it a trial, Charles.”

It  was  half  an  hour  later.  The  two  men  were  in  Lord Mayfield’s  study,  and  Sir  George  had  been  expending  a considerable  amount  of  persuasion  to  induce  his  friend  to adopt a certain course.

Lord   Mayfield,   at   first   most   unwilling,   was   gradually becoming less averse to the idea.

Sir George went on:

“Don’t be so damned pigheaded, Charles.” Lord Mayfield said slowly:

“Why  drag   in   a  wretched   foreigner  we  know  nothing about?”

“But  I  happen  to  know  a  lot  about  him.  The  man’s  a marvel.”

“Humph.”

“Look   here,   Charles.   It’s   a   chance!   Discretion   is   the essence of this business. If it leaks out―”

“When it leaks out is what you mean!”

“Not necessarily. This man, Hercule Poirot―”

“Will   come   down   here   and   produce   the   plans   like   a conjurer taking rabbits out of his hat, I suppose?”

“He’ll  get  at  the  truth.  And  the  truth  is  what  we  want. Look here, Charles, I take all responsibility on myself.”

Lord Mayfield said slowly:

“Oh, well, have it your own way, but I don’t see what the fellow can do. . . .”

Sir George picked up the phone.

“I’m going to get through to him―now.” “He’ll be in bed.”

“He  can  get  up.  Dash  it  all,  Charles,  you  can’t  let  that woman get away with it.”

“Mrs. Vanderlyn, you mean?”

“Yes. You don’t doubt, do you, that she’s at the bottom of this?”

“No,   I   don’t.   She’s   turned   the   tables   on   me   with   a vengeance.  I  don’t  like  admitting,  George,  that  a  woman’s been too clever for us. It goes against the grain. But it’s true. We shan’t be able to prove anything against her, and yet we both know that she’s been the prime mover in the affair.”

“Women are the devil,” said Carrington with feeling. “Nothing  to  connect  her  with  it,  damn  it  all!  We  may

believe that she put the girl up to that screaming trick, and that  the  man  lurking  outside  was  her  accomplice,  but  the devil of it is we can’t prove it.”

“Perhaps Hercule Poirot can.” Suddenly Lord Mayfield laughed.

“By the Lord, George, I thought you were too much of an old  John  Bull  to  put  your  trust  in  a  Frenchman,  however clever.”

“He’s  not  even  a  Frenchman,  he’s  a  Belgian,”  said  Sir George in a rather shamefaced manner.

“Well,  have  your  Belgian  down.  Let  him  try  his  wits  on this business. I’ll bet he can’t make more of it than we can.”

Without  replying,  Sir  George  stretched  a  hand  to  the telephone.

IV

Blinking  a  little,  Hercule  Poirot  turned  his  head  from  one man to the other. Very delicately he smothered a yawn.

It was half past two in the morning. He had been roused from sleep and rushed down through the darkness in a big Rolls-Royce. Now he had just finished hearing what the two men had to tell him.

“Those are the facts, M. Poirot,” said Lord Mayfield.

He leaned back in his chair, and slowly fixed his monocle in  one  eye.  Through  it  a  shrewd,  pale-blue  eye  watched Poirot attentively. Besides   being shrewd the eye was definitely sceptical. Poirot cast a swift glance at Sir George Carrington.

That  gentleman  was leaning  forward  with  an  expression of almost childlike hopefulness on his face.

Poirot said slowly:

“I  have  the  facts,  yes.  The  maid  screams,  the  secretary goes  out,  the  nameless  watcher  comes  in,  the  plans  are there on top of the desk, he snatches them up and goes. The facts―they are all very convenient.”

Something in the way he uttered the last phrase seemed to   attract   Lord   Mayfield’s   attention.   He   sat   up   a   little straighter,  his  monocle  dropped.  It  was  as  though  a  new alertness came to him.

“I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?”

“I   said,   Lord   Mayfield,   that   the   facts   were   all   very convenient―for the thief. By the way, you are sure it was a man you saw?”

Lord Mayfield shook his head.

“That I couldn’t say. It was just a―shadow. In fact, I was almost doubtful if I had seen anyone.”

Poirot transferred his gaze to the Air Marshal.

“And you, Sir George? Could you say if it was a man or a woman?”

“I didn’t see anyone myself.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he skipped suddenly to his feet and went over to the writing table.

“I can assure you that the plans are not there,” said Lord Mayfield. “We have all three been through those papers half a dozen times.”

“All three? You mean, your secretary also?” “Yes, Carlile.”

Poirot turned suddenly.

“Tell me, Lord Mayfield, which paper was on top when you went over to the desk?”

Mayfield frowned a little in the effort of remembrance. “Let  me see―yes, it  was a rough  memorandum of some

sort of our air defence positions.”

Deftly, Poirot nipped out a paper and brought it over. “Is this the one, Lord Mayfield?”

Lord Mayfield took it and glanced over it. “Yes, that’s the one.”

Poirot took it over to Carrington.

“Did you notice this paper on the desk?”

Sir George took it, held it away from him, then slipped on his pince-nez.

“Yes, that’s right. I looked through them too, with Carlile and Mayfield. This was on top.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He replaced the paper on the desk. Mayfield looked at him in a slightly puzzled manner.

“If there are any other questions―” he began.

“But  yes, certainly  there is a  question. Carlile. Carlile is the question!”

Lord Mayfield’s colour rose a little.

“Carlile, M. Poirot, is quite above suspicion! He has been my confidential secretary for nine years. He has access to all my private papers, and I may point out to you that he could

have   made   a   copy   of   the   plans   and   a   tracing   of   the specifications quite easily without anyone being the wiser.”

“I  appreciate  your  point,”  said  Poirot.  “If  he  had  been guilty  there  would  be  no  need  for  him  to  stage  a  clumsy robbery.”

“In any case,” said Lord Mayfield, “I am sure of Carlile. I will guarantee him.”

“Carlile,” said Carrington gruffly, “is all right.” Poirot spread out his hands gracefully.

“And this Mrs. Vanderlyn―she is all wrong?” “She’s a wrong ’un all right,” said Sir George. Lord Mayfield said in more measured tones:

“I  think,  M.  Poirot,  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  Mrs. Vanderlyn’s―well―activities.  The  Foreign   Office  can   give you more precious data as to that.”

“And the maid, you take it, is in with her mistress?” “Not a doubt of it,” said Sir George.

“It   seems   to   me   a   plausible   assumption,”   said   Lord Mayfield more cautiously.

There  was  a  pause.  Poirot  sighed,  and  absentmindedly rearranged one or two articles on a table at his right hand. Then he said:

“I take it that these papers represented money? That is, the stolen  papers would  be definitely worth  a large sum in cash.”

“If presented in a certain quarter―yes.” “Such as?”

Sir   George   mentioned   the   names   of   two   European powers.

Poirot nodded.

“That fact would be known to anyone, I take it?” “Mrs. Vanderlyn would know it all right.”

“I said to anyone?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Anyone with a minimum of intelligence would appreciate the cash value of the plans?”

“Yes,  but  M.  Poirot―”  Lord  Mayfield  was  looking  rather uncomfortable.

Poirot held up a hand.

“I do what you call explore all the avenues.”

Suddenly   he   rose   again,   stepped   nimbly   out   of   the window and with a flashlight examined the edge of the grass at the farther side of the terrace.

The two men watched him.

He came in again, sat down and said:

“Tell me, Lord Mayfield, this malefactor, this skulker in the shadows, you do not have him pursued?”

Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders.

“At the bottom of the garden he could make his way out to a main road. If he had a car waiting there, he would soon be out of reach―”

“But there are the police―the A.A. scouts―” Sir George interrupted.

“You forget, M. Poirot. We cannot risk publicity. If it were to get out that these plans had been stolen, the result would be extremely unfavourable to the Party.”

“Ah, yes,” said Poirot. “One must remember La Politique. The great discretion must be observed. You send instead for me. Ah well, perhaps it is simpler.”

“You  are  hopeful  of  success,  M.  Poirot?”  Lord  Mayfield sounded a trifle incredulous.

The little man shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not? One has only to reason―to reflect.” He paused a moment and then said:

“I would like now to speak to Mr. Carlile.”

“Certainly.”  Lord  Mayfield  rose.  “I  asked  him to  wait  up. He will be somewhere at hand.”

He went out of the room. Poirot looked at Sir George.

“Eh bien,” he said. “What about this man on the terrace?” “My dear M. Poirot. Don’t ask me! I didn’t see him, and I

can’t describe him.” Poirot leaned forward.

“So you have already said. But it is a little different from that is it not?”

“What d’you mean?” asked Sir George abruptly.

“How shall I say it? Your disbelief, it is more profound.” Sir George started to speak, then stopped.

“But  yes,”  said  Poirot  encouragingly.  “Tell  me.  You  are both at the end of the terrace. Lord Mayfield sees a shadow slip from the window and across the grass. Why do you not see that shadow?”

Carrington stared at him.

“You’ve  hit  it,  M.  Poirot.  I’ve  been  worrying  about  that ever  since.  You  see,  I’d  swear  that  no  one  did  leave  this window.  I  thought  Mayfield  had  imagined  it―branch  of  a tree  waving―something  of  that  kind.  And  then  when  we came in here and found there had been a robbery, it seemed as  though   Mayfield   must   have  been   right   and   I’d   been wrong. And yet―”

Poirot smiled.

“And  yet  you  still  in  your  heart  of  hearts  believe  in  the evidence (the negative evidence) of your own eyes?”

“You’re right, M. Poirot, I do.” Poirot gave a sudden smile. “How wise you are.”

Sir George said sharply:

“There were no footprints on the grass edge?”

Poirot nodded.

“Exactly.  Lord  Mayfield,  he  fancies  he  sees  a  shadow. Then there comes the robbery and he is sure―but sure! It is no longer a fancy―he actually saw the man. But that is not so.  Me,  I  do  not  concern  myself  much  with  footprints  and such  things but for what it is worth  we have that negative evidence.  There  were  no  footprints  on  the  grass.  It  had rained heavily this evening. If a man had crossed the terrace to the grass this evening his footprints would have shown.”

Sir George said, staring: “But then―but then―”

“It  brings  us  back  to  the  house.  To  the  people  in  the house.”

He   broke   off   as   the   door   opened   and   Lord   Mayfield entered with Mr. Carlile.

Though still looking very pale and worried, the secretary had regained a certain composure of manner. Adjusting his pince-nez he sat down and looked at Poirot inquiringly.

“How long had you been in this room when you heard the scream, monsieur?”

Carlile considered.

“Between five and ten minutes, I should say.”

“And  before  that  there  had  been  no  disturbance  of  any kind?”

“No.”

“I understand that the house party had been in one room for the greater part of the evening.”

“Yes, the drawing room.” Poirot consulted his notebook.

“Sir  George  Carrington  and  his  wife.  Mrs.  Macatta.  Mrs. Vanderlyn. Mr. Reggie Carrington. Lord Mayfield and yourself. Is that right?”

“I myself was not in the drawing room. I was working here the greater part of the evening.”

Poirot turned to Lord Mayfield. “Who went up to bed first?”

“Lady  Julia  Carrington,  I  think.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the three ladies went out together.”

“And then?”

“Mr. Carlile came in and I told him to get out the papers as Sir George and I would be along in a minute.”

“It  was  then  that  you  decided  to  take  a  turn  on  the terrace?”

“It was.”

“Was anything said in Mrs. Vanderlyn’s hearing as to your working in the study?”

“The matter was mentioned, yes.”

“But  she  was  not  in  the  room  when  you  instructed  Mr. Carlile to get out the papers?”

“No.”

“Excuse  me,  Lord  Mayfield,”  said  Carlile.  “Just  after  you had  said  that,  I  collided  with  her  in  the  doorway.  She  had come back for a book.”

“So you think she might have overheard?” “I think it quite possible, yes.”

“She came back for a book,” mused Poirot. “Did you find her her book, Lord Mayfield?”

“Yes, Reggie gave it to her.”

“Ah, yes, it is what you call the old gasp―no, pardon, the old   wheeze―that―to   come   back   for   a   book.  It   is  often useful!”

“You think it was deliberate?” Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“And after that, you two gentlemen go out on the terrace. And Mrs. Vanderlyn?”

“She went off with her book.”

“And the young M. Reggie. He went to bed also?”

“Yes.”

“And  Mr.  Carlile  he  comes  here  and  sometime  between five and ten minutes later he heard a scream. Continue, M. Carlile. You heard a scream and you went out into the hall. Ah, perhaps it would be simplest if you reproduced exactly your actions.”

Mr. Carlile got up a little awkwardly.

“Here   I   scream,”  said   Poirot   helpfully.  He   opened   his mouth  and  emitted  a  shrill  bleat.  Lord  Mayfield  turned  his head away to hide a smile and Mr. Carlile looked extremely uncomfortable.

“Allez! Forward! March!” cried Poirot. “It is your cue that I give you there.”

Mr. Carlile walked stiffly to the door, opened it and went out. Poirot followed him. The other two came behind.

“The door, did you close it after you or leave it open?”

“I can’t really remember. I think I must have left it open.” “No matter. Proceed.”

Still   with   extreme   stiffness,  Mr.  Carlile   walked   to   the bottom of the staircase and stood there looking up.

Poirot said:

“The maid, you say, was on the stairs. Whereabouts?” “About halfway up.”

“And she was looking upset.” “Definitely so.”

“Eh  bien,  me,  I  am the  maid.”  Poirot  ran  nimbly  up  the stairs. “About here?”

“A step or two higher.” “Like this?”

Poirot struck an attitude.

“Well―er―not quite like that.” “How then?”

“Well, she had her hands to her head.”

“Ah, her hands to her head. That is very interesting. Like this?” Poirot  raised  his arms,  his hands rested  on  his head just above each ear.

“Yes that’s it.”

“Aha! And tell me, M. Carlile, she was a pretty girl―yes?” “Really, I didn’t notice.”

Carlile’s voice was repressive.

“Aha, you did not notice? But you are a young man. Does not a young man notice when a girl is pretty?”

“Really, M. Poirot, I can only repeat that I did not do so.” Carlile   cast   an   agonized   glance   at   his   employer.   Sir

George Carrington gave a sudden chuckle.

“M. Poirot seems determined to make you out a gay dog, Carlile,” he remarked.

“Me,  I  always  notice  when  a  girl  is  pretty,”  announced Poirot as he descended the stairs.

The silence with which Mr. Carlile greeted this remark was somewhat pointed. Poirot went on:

“And  it  was  then  she  told  this  tale  of  having  seen  a ghost?”

“Yes.”

“Did you believe the story?” “Well, hardly, M. Poirot!”

“I do not mean, do you believe in ghosts. I mean, did it strike you that the girl  herself really thought she had seen something?”

“Oh, as to that, I couldn’t say. She was certainly breathing fast and seemed upset.”

“You did not see or hear anything of her mistress?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. She came out of her room in the gallery above and called, ‘Leonie.’ ”

“And then?”

“The girl ran up to her and I went back to the study.”

“Whilst you were standing at the foot of the stairs here, could  anyone have entered  the study by the door you  had left open?”

Carlile shook his head.

“Not without passing me. The study door is at the end of the passage, as you see.”

Poirot  nodded  thoughtfully.  Mr.  Carlile  went  on  in  his careful, precise voice.

“I  may  say  that  I  am  very  thankful  that  Lord  Mayfield actually   saw   the   thief   leaving   the   window.   Otherwise   I myself should be in a very unpleasant position.”

“Nonsense,   my   dear   Carlile,”   broke   in   Lord   Mayfield impatiently. “No suspicion could possibly attach to you.”

“It is very kind of you to say so, Lord Mayfield, but facts are facts, and I can quite see that it looks badly for me. In any  case  I  hope  that  my  belongings  and  myself  may  be searched.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Mayfield. Poirot murmured:

“You are serious in wishing that?” “I should infinitely prefer it.”

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two and murmured, “I see.”

Then he asked:

“Where is Mrs. Vanderlyn’s room situated in regard to the study?”

“It is directly over it.”

“With a window looking out over the terrace?” “Yes.”

Again Poirot nodded. Then he said: “Let us go to the drawing room.”

Here    he    wandered    round    the    room,    examined    the fastenings  of  the  windows,  glanced  at  the  scorers  on  the

bridge table and then finally addressed Lord Mayfield.

“This   affair,”   he   said,   “is   more   complicated   than   it appears.  But  one  thing  is  quite  certain.  The  stolen  plans have not left this house.”

Lord Mayfield stared at him.

“But, my dear M. Poirot, the man I saw leaving the study ―”

“There was no man.” “But I saw him―”

“With  the greatest  respect, Lord  Mayfield, you  imagined you  saw  him.  The  shadow  cast  by  the  branch  of  a  tree deceived  you.  The  fact  that  a  robbery  occurred  naturally seemed a proof that what you had imagined was true.”

“Really, M. Poirot, the evidence of my own eyes―”

“Back my eyes against yours any day, old boy,” put in Sir George.

“You  must  permit  me, Lord  Mayfield, to be very  definite on that point. No one crossed the terrace to the grass.”

Looking very pale and speaking stiffly, Mr. Carlile said:

“In that case, if M. Poirot is correct, suspicion automatically  attaches  itself  to  me.  I  am  the  only  person who could possibly have committed the robbery.”

Lord Mayfield sprang up.

“Nonsense.  Whatever  M.  Poirot  thinks  about  it,  I  don’t agree with him. I am convinced of your innocence, my dear Carlile. In fact, I’m willing to guarantee it.”

Poirot murmured mildly:

“But I have not said that I suspect M. Carlile.” Carlile answered:

“No, but you’ve made it perfectly clear that no one else had a chance to commit the robbery.”

“Du tout! Du tout!”

“But I have told you nobody passed me in the hall to get to the study door.”

“I  agree. But  someone might  have come in  through  the study window.”

“But that is just what you said did not happen?”

“I said that no one from outside could have come and left without leaving marks on the grass. But it could have been managed from inside the house. Someone could have gone out  from his  room by  one  of  these  windows,  slipped  along the terrace, in at the study window, and back again in here.”

Mr. Carlile objected:

“But Lord Mayfield and Sir George Carrington were on the

terrace.”

“They   were   on   the promenade.  Sir  George

terrace,   yes,   but   they   were   en Carrington’s  eyes  may  be  of  the

most  reliable”―Poirot  made  a  little  bow―“but  he  does  not keep them in the back of his head! The study window is at the  extreme  left  of  the  terrace,  the  windows  of  this  room come next, but the terrace continues to the right past one, two, three, perhaps four rooms?”

“Dining  room,  billiard  room,  morning  room  and  library,” said Lord Mayfield.

“And  you  walked  up  and  down  the  terrace,  how  many times?”

“At least five or six.”

“You see, it is easy enough, the thief has only to watch for the right moment!”

Carlile said slowly:

“You  mean  that  when  I  was  in  the  hall,  talking  to  the French girl, the thief was waiting in the drawing room?”

“That is my suggestion. It is, of course, only a suggestion.”

“It   doesn’t   sound   very   probable   to   me,”   said   Lord Mayfield. “Too risky.”

The Air Marshal demurred.

“I  don’t  agree  with  you,  Charles.  It’s  perfectly  possible. Wonder I hadn’t the wits to think of it for myself.”

“So you see,” said Poirot, “why I believe that the plans are still in the house. The problem now is to find them!”

Sir George snorted.

“That’s simple enough. Search everybody.”

Lord  Mayfield  made  a  movement  of  dissent,  but  Poirot spoke before he could.

“No, no, it is not so simple as that. The person who took those  plans  will  anticipate  that  a  search  will  be  made  and will make quite sure that they are not found amongst his or her   belongings.   They   will   have   been   hidden   in   neutral ground.”

“Do  you  suggest  that  we’ve  got  to  go  playing  hide  and seek all over the bally house?”

Poirot smiled.

“No, no, we need not be so crude as that. We can arrive at the hiding place (or alternatively at the identity of the guilty person)   by   reflection.   That   will   simplify   matters.   In   the morning  I would  like an  interview with  every person  in  the house. It would, I think, be unwise to seek those interviews now.”

Lord Mayfield nodded.

“Cause  too  much  comment,”  he  said,  “if  we  dragged everybody out of their beds at three in the morning. In any case you’ll have to proceed with a good deal of camouflage, M. Poirot. This matter has got to be kept dark.”

Poirot waved an airy hand.

“Leave  it  to  Hercule  Poirot.  The  lies  I  invent  are  always most   delicate   and   most   convincing.   Tomorrow,   then,   I

conduct   my   investigations.  But   tonight,  I   should   like  to begin   by   interviewing   you,   Sir   George   and   you,   Lord Mayfield.”

He bowed to them both. “You mean―alone?” “That was my meaning.”

Lord Mayfield raised his eyes slightly, then he said: “Certainly. I’ll leave you alone with Sir George. When you

want me, you’ll find me in my study. Come, Carlile.”

He and the secretary went out, shutting the door behind them.

Sir George sat down, reaching mechanically for a cigarette. He turned a puzzled face to Poirot.

“You know,” he said slowly. “I don’t quite get this.”

“That is very simply explained,” said Poirot with a smile. “In two words, to be accurate. Mrs. Vanderlyn!”

“Oh,” said Carrington. “I think I see. Mrs. Vanderlyn?” “Precisely. It might be, you see, that it would not be very

delicate to ask Lord Mayfield the question I want to ask. Why Mrs. Vanderlyn?  This lady, she is known  to be a suspicious character.  Why,  then,  should  she  be  here?  I  say  to  myself there are three explanations. One, that Lord Mayfield has a penchant for the lady (and that is why I seek to talk to you alone.   I   do   not   wish   to   embarrass   him).   Two,   that   Mrs. Vanderlyn is perhaps the dear friend of someone else in the house?”

“You can count me out!” said Sir George with a grin.

“Then,  if  neither  of  those  cases  is returns  in   redoubled   force.  Why   Mrs.

true,  the  question Vanderlyn?   And   it

seems  to  me  I  perceive  a reason. Her presence at

shadowy  answer.  There  was  a this    particular    juncture    was

definitely desired by Lord Mayfield for a special reason. Am I right?”

Sir George nodded.

“You’re quite right,” he said. “Mayfield is too old a bird to fall  for  her  wiles.  He  wanted  her  here  for  quite  another reason. It was like this.”

He retailed the conversation that had taken place at the dinner table. Poirot listened attentively.

“Ah,” he said. “I comprehend now. Nevertheless, it seems that  the  lady  has  turned  the  tables  on  you  both  rather neatly!”

Sir George swore freely.

Poirot watched him with some slight amusement, then he said:

“You  do  not  doubt  that  this  theft  is  her  doing―I  mean, that  she is responsible for  it, whether  or  no  she played  an active part?”

Sir George stared.

“Of course not! There isn’t any doubt of that. Why, who else would have any interest in stealing those plans?”

“Ah!” said  Hercule Poirot. He leaned  back  and  looked  at the ceiling. “And yet, Sir George, we agreed, not a quarter of an  hour ago, that  these papers represented  very  definitely money. Not perhaps, in quite so obvious a form   as banknotes, or gold, or jewellery, but nevertheless they were potential money. If there were anyone here who was hard up ―”

The other interrupted him with a snort.

“Who  isn’t  these  days?  I  suppose  I  can  say  it  without incriminating myself.”

He  smiled  and  Poirot  smiled  politely  back  at  him  and murmured:

“Mais oui, you can say what you like, for you, Sir George, have the one unimpeachable alibi in this affair.”

“But I’m damned hard up myself!”

Poirot shook his head sadly.

“Yes,  indeed,  a  man  in  your  position  has  heavy  living expenses. Then you have a young son at a most expensive age―”

Sir George groaned.

“Education’s  bad  enough,  then  debts  on  top  of  it.  Mind you, this lad’s not a bad lad.”

Poirot listened sympathetically. He heard a lot of the Air Marshal’s   accumulated   grievances.   The   lack   of   grit   and stamina  in  the  younger  generation,  the  fantastic  way  in which  mothers  spoilt  their  children  and  always  took  their side, the curse of gambling once it got hold of a woman, the folly  of  playing  for  higher  stakes  than  you  could  afford.  It was  couched  in  general  terms,  Sir  George  did  not  allude directly   to   either   his   wife   or   his   son,   but   his   natural transparency   made  his  generalizations  very   easy   to  see through.

He broke off suddenly.

“Sorry, mustn’t take up your time with something that’s right off the subject, especially at this hour of the night―or rather, morning.”

He stifled a yawn.

“I  suggest,  Sir  George,  that  you  should  go  to  bed.  You have been most kind and helpful.”

“Right,  think  I  will  turn  in.  You  really  think  there  is  a chance of getting the plans back?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“I mean to try. I do not see why not.” “Well, I’ll be off. Goodnight.”

He left the room.

Poirot  remained  in  his  chair  staring  thoughtfully  at  the ceiling, then he took out a little notebook and turning to a clean page, he wrote:

Mrs. Vanderlyn?

Lady Julia Carrington? Mrs. Macatta?

Reggie Carrington? Mr. Carlile?

Underneath he wrote:

Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mr. Reggie Carrington? Mrs. Vanderlyn and Lady Julia?

Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mr. Carlile?

He shook  his head  in  a dissatisifed  manner, murmuring: “C’est plus simple que ça.”

Then he added a few short sentences.

Did Lord Mayfield see a “shadow?” If not, why did he say he did? Did Sir George see anything? He was positive he had seen nothing AFTER I examined flower bed. Note: Lord Mayfield is nearsighted, can read without glasses but has to use a monocle to look across a room. Sir George is long-sighted. Therefore, from the far end of the terrace, his sight is more to be depended upon than Lord Mayfield’s. Yet Lord Mayfield is very positive that he DID see something and is quite unshaken by his friend’s denial.

Can anyone be quite as above suspicion as Mr. Carlile appears to be? Lord Mayfield is very emphatic as to his innocence. Too much so. Why? Because he secretly suspects him and is ashamed of his suspicions? Or because he definitely suspects some

other person? That is to say, some person OTHER than Mrs. Vanderlyn?

He put the notebook away.

Then, getting up, he went along to the study.

V

Lord Mayfield was seated at his desk when Poirot entered the study.  He  swung  round,  laid  down  his  pen,  and  looked  up inquiringly.

“Well, M. Poirot, had your interview with Carrington?” Poirot smiled and sat down.

“Yes,   Lord   Mayfield.   He   cleared   up   a   point   that   had puzzled me.”

“What was that?”

“The   reason   for   Mrs.   Vanderlyn’s   presence   here.   You comprehend, I thought it possible―”

Mayfield   was   quick   to   realize   the   cause   of   Poirot’s somewhat exaggerated embarrassment.

“You thought I had a weakness for the lady? Not at all. Far from it. Funnily enough, Carrington thought the same.”

“Yes, he has told me of the conversation he held with you on the subject.”

Lord Mayfield looked rather rueful.

“My  little  scheme  didn’t  come  off.  Always  annoying  to have to admit that a woman has got the better of you.”

“Ah,  but  she  has  not  got  the  better  of  you  yet,  Lord Mayfield.”

“You think we may yet win? Well, I’m glad to hear you say so. I’d like to think it was true.”

He sighed.

“I feel I’ve acted like a complete fool―so pleased with my stratagem for entrapping the lady.”

Hercule Poirot said, as he lit one of his tiny cigarettes: “What was your stratagem exactly, Lord Mayfield?” “Well,”  Lord   Mayfield   hesitated.  “I   hadn’t   exactly   got

down to details.”

“You didn’t discuss it with anyone?” “No.”

“Not even with Mr. Carlile?” “No.”

Poirot smiled.

“You prefer to play a lone hand, Lord Mayfield.”

“I  have usually  found  it  the best  way,” said  the other a little grimly.

“Yes, you are wise. Trust no one. But you did mention the matter to Sir George Carrington?”

“Simply   because   I   realized   that   the   dear   fellow   was seriously perturbed about me.”

Lord Mayfield smiled at the remembrance. “He is an old friend of yours?”

“Yes. I have known him for over twenty years.” “And his wife?”

“I have known his wife also, of course.”

“But (pardon me if I am impertinent) you are not on the same terms of intimacy with her?”

“I   don’t   really   see  what   my   personal   relationships  to people has to do with the matter in hand, M. Poirot.”

“But  I  think,  Lord  Mayfield,  that  they  may  have  a  good deal to do with it. You agreed, did you not, that my theory of someone in the drawing room was a possible one?”

“Yes. In fact, I agree with you that that is what must have happened.”

“We will not say ‘must.’ That is too self-confident a word. But  if  that  theory  of  mine  is  true,  who  do  you  think  the person in the drawing room could have been?”

“Obviously Mrs. Vanderlyn. She had been back there once for a book. She could have come back for another book, or a handbag,   or   a   dropped   handkerchief―one   of   a   dozen feminine excuses. She arranges with her maid to scream and get Carlile away from the study. Then she slips in and out by the windows as you said.”

“You forget it could not have been Mrs. Vanderlyn. Carlile heard her call the maid from upstairs while he was talking to the girl.”

Lord Mayfield bit his lip.

“True. I forgot that.” He looked thoroughly annoyed.

“You see,” said Poirot gently. “We progress. We have first the  simple  explanation  of  a  thief  who  comes  from  outside and makes off with the booty. A very convenient theory as I said at the time, too convenient to be readily accepted. We have  disposed  of  that.  Then  we  come  to  the  theory  of  the foreign  agent,  Mrs.  Vanderlyn,  and  that  again  seems  to  fit together beautifully up to a certain point. But now it looks as though   that,   too,   was   too   easy―too   convenient―to   be accepted.”

“You’d wash Mrs. Vanderlyn out of it altogether?”

“It  was  not  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  in  the  drawing  room.  It  may have  been  an  ally  of  Mrs.  Vanderlyn’s  who  committed  the theft, but it is just possible that it was committed by another person altogether. If so, we have to consider the question of motive.”

“Isn’t this rather far-fetched, M. Poirot?”

“I  do  not  think  so.  Now  what  motives  could  there  be? There  is  the  motive  of  money.  The  papers  may  have  been stolen with the object of turning them into cash. That is the

simplest motive to consider. But the motive might possibly be something quite different.”

“Such as―” Poirot said slowly:

“It  might  have  been  done  definitely  with  the  idea  of damaging someone.”

“Who?”

“Possibly  Mr.  Carlile.  He  would  be  the  obvious  suspect. But  there  might  be  more  to  it  than  that.  The  men  who control the destiny of a country, Lord Mayfield, are particularly vulnerable to displays of popular feeling.”

“Meaning that the theft was aimed at damaging me?” Poirot nodded.

“I think I am correct in saying, Lord Mayfield, that about five years ago you passed through a somewhat trying time. You were suspected of friendship with a European Power at that   time   bitterly   unpopular   with   the   electorate   of   this country.”

“Quite true, M. Poirot.”

“A statesman in these days has a difficult task. He has to pursue  the  policy  he  deems  advantageous  to  his  country, but  he  has  at  the  same  time  to  recognize  the  force  of popular  feeling.  Popular  feeling  is  very  often  sentimental, muddleheaded,  and  eminently  unsound,  but  it  cannot  be disregarded for all that.”

“How well  you  express it!  That  is exactly  the curse of  a politician’s  life.  He  has  to  bow  to  the  country’s  feeling, however dangerous and foolhardy he knows it to be.”

“That was your dilemma, I think. There were rumours that you   had   concluded   an   agreement   with   the   country   in question. This country and the newspapers were up in arms about it. Fortunately the Prime Minister was able categorically   to   deny   the   story,   and   you   repudiated   it,

though  still  making  no  secret  of  the  way  your  sympathies lay.”

“All  this  is  quite  true,  M.  Poirot,  but  why  rake  up  past history?”

“Because I consider it possible that an enemy, disappointed  in  the way  you  surmounted  that  crisis, might endeavour  to  stage  a  further  dilemma.  You  soon  regained public   confidence.   Those   particular   circumstances   have passed  away,  you  are  now,  deservedly,  one  of  the  most popular  figures in  political  life.  You  are  spoken  of  freely  as the next Prime Minister when Mr. Hunberly retires.”

“You think this is an attempt to discredit me? Nonsense!” “Tout de même, Lord Mayfield, it would not look well if it

were known that the plans of Britain’s new bomber had been stolen during a weekend when a certain very charming lady had  been  your  guest.  Little  hints  in  the  newspapers  as  to your  relationship  with  that  lady  would  create  a  feeling  of distrust in you.”

“Such a thing could not really be taken seriously.”

“My dear Lord Mayfield, you know perfectly well it could! It takes so little to undermine public confidence in a man.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Lord Mayfield. He looked suddenly very worried.   “God!   how   desperately complicated this business is becoming. Do you really think―but    it’s impossible―impossible.”

“You know of nobody who is―jealous of you?” “Absurd!”

“At any rate you will admit that my questions about your personal relationships with the members of this house party are not totally irrelevant.”

“Oh, perhaps―perhaps. You asked me about Julia Carrington.  There’s  really  not  very  much  to  say.  I’ve  never taken to her very much, and I don’t think she cares for me.

She’s one of these restless, nervy women, recklessly extravagant   and   mad   about   cards.   She’s   old-fashioned enough, I think, to despise me as being a self-made man.”

Poirot said:

“I looked you up in Who’s Who before I came down. You were  the  head  of  a  famous  engineering  firm  and  you  are yourself a first-class engineer.”

“There’s certainly nothing I don’t know about the practical side. I’ve worked my way up from the bottom.”

Lord Mayfield spoke rather grimly.

“Oh la la!” cried Poirot. “I have been a fool―but a fool!” The other stared at him.

“I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?”

“It is that a portion of the puzzle has become clear to me. Something I did not see before . . . But it all fits in. Yes―it fits in with beautiful precision.”

Lord   Mayfield   looked   at   him  in   somewhat   astonished inquiry.

But with a slight smile Poirot shook his head.

“No, no, not  now. I  must  arrange my  ideas a little more clearly.”

He rose.

“Goodnight,  Lord  Mayfield.  I  think  I  know  where  those plans are.”

Lord Mayfield cried out:

“You know? Then let us get hold of them at once!” Poirot shook his head.

“No, no, that  would  not  do. Precipitancy  would  be fatal. But leave it all to Hercule Poirot.”

He   went   out   of   the   room.   Lord   Mayfield   raised   his shoulders in contempt.

“Man’s a mountebank,” he muttered. Then, putting away his papers and turning out the lights, he, too, made his way

up to bed.

VI

“If   there’s   been   a   burglary,   why   the   devil   doesn’t   old Mayfield send for the police?” demanded Reggie Carrington.

He  pushed   his  chair  slightly  back   from  the  breakfast table.

He  was  the  last  down.  His  host,  Mrs.  Macatta  and  Sir George had  finished  their breakfasts some time before. His mother and Mrs. Vanderlyn were breakfasting in bed.

Sir George, repeating  his statement  on  the lines agreed upon   between   Lord   Mayfield   and   Hercule   Poirot,   had   a feeling that he was not managing it as well as he might have done.

“To send for a queer foreigner like this seems very odd to me,” said Reggie. “What has been taken, Father?”

“I don’t know exactly, my boy.”

Reggie got up. He looked rather nervy and on edge this morning.

“Nothing―important? No―papers or anything like that?” “To tell you the truth, Reggie, I can’t tell you exactly.” “Very hush-hush, is it? I see.”

Reggie  ran  up  the  stairs,  paused  for  a  moment  halfway with a frown on his face, and then continued his ascent and tapped on his mother’s door. Her voice bade him enter.

Lady Julia was sitting up in bed, scribbling figures on the back of an envelope.

“Good   morning,   darling.”   She   looked   up,   then   said sharply:

“Reggie, is anything the matter?”

“Nothing  much,  but  it  seems  there  was  a  burglary  last night.”

“A burglary? What was taken?”

“Oh,  I  don’t  know.  It’s  all  very  hush-hush.  There’s  some odd kind of private inquiry agent downstairs asking everybody questions.”

“How extraordinary!”

“It’s rather unpleasant,” said Reggie slowly, “staying in a house when that kind of thing happens.”

“What did happen exactly?”

“Don’t  know. It  was some time after we all  went  to bed. Look out, Mother, you’ll have that tray off.”

He rescued the breakfast tray and carried it to a table by the window.

“Was money taken?”

“I tell you I don’t know.” Lady Julia said slowly:

“I suppose this inquiry man is asking everybody questions?”

“I suppose so.”

“Where they were last night? All that kind of thing?” “Probably. Well, I can’t tell him much. I went straight up

to bed and was asleep in next to no time.” Lady Julia did not answer.

“I say, Mother, I suppose you couldn’t let me have a spot of cash. I’m absolutely broke.”

“No,  I  couldn’t,”  his  mother  replied  decisively.  “I’ve  got the most  frightful  overdraft  myself. I don’t  know what  your father will say when he hears about it.”

There was a tap at the door and Sir George entered.

“Ah,  there  you  are,  Reggie.  Will  you  go  down  to  the library? M. Hercule Poirot wants to see you.”

Poirot had just concluded an interview with the redoubtable Mrs. Macatta.

A  few  brief  questions  had  elicited  the  information  that Mrs. Macatta had gone up to bed just before eleven, and had heard or seen nothing helpful.

Poirot  slid  gently  from the topic of the burglary  to more personal matters. He himself had a great admiration for Lord Mayfield. As a member of the general public he felt that Lord Mayfield  was  a  truly  great  man.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Macatta, being   in   the   know,   would   have   a   far   better   means   of estimating that than himself.

“Lord Mayfield has brains,” allowed Mrs. Macatta. “And he has  carved   his  career   out   entirely   for   himself.  He   owes nothing  to  hereditary  influence.  He  has  a  certain  lack  of vision, perhaps. In that I find all men sadly alike. They lack the breadth of a woman’s imagination. Woman, M. Poirot, is going  to  be  the  great  force  in  government  in  ten  years’ time.”

Poirot said that he was sure of it.

He slid to the topic of Mrs. Vanderlyn. Was it true, as he had  heard  hinted,  that  she  and  Lord  Mayfield  were  very close friends?

“Not in the least. To tell you the truth I was very surprised to meet her here. Very surprised indeed.”

Poirot invited Mrs. Macatta’s opinion of Mrs. Vanderlyn― and got it.

“One   of   those   absolutely   useless   women,   M.   Poirot. Women that make one despair of one’s own sex! A parasite, first and last a parasite.”

“Men admired her?”

“Men!” Mrs. Macatta spoke the word with contempt. “Men are always taken in by those very obvious good looks. That boy, now, young Reggie Carrington, flushing up every time she spoke to him, absurdly flattered by being taken notice of

by her. And the silly way she flattered him too. Praising his bridge―which actually was far from brilliant.”

“He is not a good player?”

“He made all sorts of mistakes last night.” “Lady Julia is a good player, is she not?”

“Much  too  good  in  my  opinion,”  said  Mrs.  Macatta.  “It’s almost a profession with her. She plays morning, noon, and night.”

“For high stakes?”

“Yes,  indeed,  much  higher  than  I  would  care  to  play. Indeed I shouldn’t consider it right.”

“She makes a good deal of money at the game?” Mrs. Macatta gave a loud and virtuous snort.

“She  reckons  on  paying  her  debts  that  way.  But  she’s been  having  a  run  of  bad  luck  lately,  so  I’ve  heard.  She looked last night as though she had something on her mind. The evils of gambling, M. Poirot, are only  slightly  less than the  evils  caused  by  drink.  If  I  had  my  way  this  country should be purified―”

Poirot   was   forced   to   listen   to   a   somewhat   lengthy discussion on the purification of England’s morals. Then he closed the conversation adroitly and sent for Reggie Carrington.

He  summed  the  young  man  up  carefully  as  he  entered the   room,   the   weak   mouth   camouflaged   by   the   rather charming  smile, the indecisive chin, the eyes set far apart, the  rather  narrow  head.  He  thought  that  he  knew  Reggie Carrington’s type fairly well.

“Mr. Reggie Carrington?” “Yes. Anything I can do?”

“Just tell me what you can about last night?”

“Well, let me see, we played bridge―in the drawing room. After that I went up to bed.”

“That was at what time?”

“Just  before  eleven.  I  suppose  the  robbery  took  place after that?”

“Yes, after that. You did not hear or see anything?” Reggie shook his head regretfully.

“I’m afraid not. I went straight to bed and I sleep pretty soundly.”

“You  went  straight  up  from  the  drawing  room  to  your bedroom and remained there until the morning?”

“That’s right.” “Curious,” said Poirot. Reggie said sharply:

“What do you mean, curious?”

“You did not, for instance, hear a scream?” “No, I didn’t.”

“Ah, very curious.”

“Look here, I don’t know what you mean.” “You are, perhaps, slightly deaf?” “Certainly not.”

Poirot’s lips moved. It was possible that he was repeating the word curious for the third time. Then he said:

“Well, thank you, Mr. Carrington, that is all.” Reggie got up and stood rather irresolutely.

“You  know,”  he  said,  “now  you  come  to  mention  it,  I believe I did hear something of the kind.”

“Ah, you did hear something?”

“Yes, but you see, I was reading a book―a detective story as a matter of fact―and I―well, I didn’t really quite take it in.”

“Ah,” said Poirot, “a most satisfying explanation.” His face was quite impassive.

Reggie still hesitated, then he turned and walked slowly to the door. There he paused and asked:

“I say, what was stolen?”

“Something of great value, Mr. Carrington. That is all I am at liberty to say.”

“Oh,” said Reggie rather blankly. He went out.

Poirot nodded his head.

“It fits,” he murmured. “It fits very nicely.”

He   touched   a   bell   and   inquired   courteously   if   Mrs. Vanderlyn was up yet.

VII

Mrs. Vanderlyn swept into the room looking very handsome. She   was   wearing   an   artfully-cut   russet   sports   suit   that showed up the warm lights of her hair. She swept to a chair and smiled in a dazzling fashion at the little man in front of her.

For  a  moment  something  showed  through  the  smile.  It might   have   been   triumph,   it   might   almost   have   been mockery.  It  was  gone  almost  immediately,  but  it  had  been there. Poirot found the suggestion of it interesting.

“Burglars? Last night? But how dreadful! Why no, I never heard   a   thing.   What   about   the   police?   Can’t   they   do anything?”

Again,  just  for  a  moment,  the  mockery  showed  in  her eyes.

Hercule Poirot thought:

“It is very clear that you are not afraid of the police, my lady. You know very well that they are not going to be called in.”

And from that followed―what? He said soberly:

“You  comprehend,  madame,  it  is  an  affair  of  the  most discreet.”

“Why,  naturally,  M.―Poirot―isn’t  it?―I  shouldn’t  dream of breathing a word. I’m much too great an admirer of dear Lord  Mayfield’s to do anything  to cause him the least little bit of worry.”

She crossed her knees. A highly-polished slipper of brown leather dangled on the tip of her silk-shod foot.

She  smiled,  a  warm,  compelling  smile  of  perfect  health and deep satisfaction.

“Do tell me if there’s anything at all I can do?”

“I thank you, madame. You played bridge in the drawing room last night?”

“Yes.”

“I understand that then all the ladies went up to bed?” “That is right.”

“But someone came back to fetch a book. That was you, was it not, Mrs. Vanderlyn?”

“I was the first one to come back―yes.”

“What do you mean―the first one?” said Poirot sharply.

“I   came   back   right   away,”   explained   Mrs.   Vanderlyn. “Then I went up and rang for my maid. She was a long time in  coming.  I  rang  again.  Then  I  went  out  on  the  landing.  I heard her voice and I called her. After she had brushed my hair I sent her away, she was in a nervous, upset state and tangled the brush in my hair once or twice. It was then, just as I sent her away, that I saw Lady Julia coming up the stairs. She  told  me  she  had  been  down  again  for  a  book,  too. Curious, wasn’t it?”

Mrs.  Vanderlyn  smiled  as  she  finished,  a  wide,  rather feline  smile.  Hercule  Poirot  thought  to  himself  that  Mrs. Vanderlyn did not like Lady Julia Carrington.

“As  you  say,  madame.  Tell  me,  did  you  hear  your  maid scream?”

“Why, yes, I did hear something of that kind.” “Did you ask her about it?”

“Yes.  She  told  me  she  thought  she  had  seen  a  floating figure in white―such nonsense!”

“What was Lady Julia wearing last night?”

“Oh,  you  think  perhaps―Yes,  I  see.  She  was  wearing  a white  evening  dress.  Of  course,  that  explains  it.  She  must have  caught  sight  of  her  in  the  darkness  just  as  a  white figure. These girls are so superstitious.”

“Your maid has been with you a long time, madame?” “Oh,  no.”  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  opened  her  eyes  rather  wide.

“Only about five months.”

“I  should  like  to  see  her  presently,  if  you  do  not  mind, madame.”

Mrs. Vanderlyn raised her eyebrows. “Oh, certainly,” she said rather coldly.

“I should like, you understand, to question her.” “Oh, yes.”

Again a flicker of amusement. Poirot rose and bowed.

“Madame,” he said. “You have my complete admiration.” Mrs. Vanderlyn for once seemed a trifle taken aback. “Oh, M. Poirot, how nice of you, but why?”

“You are, madame, so perfectly armoured, so completely sure of yourself.”

Mrs. Vanderlyn laughed a little uncertainly.

“Now  I  wonder,”  she  said,  “if  I  am  to  take  that  as  a compliment?”

Poirot said:

“It is, perhaps, a warning―not to treat life with arrogance.”

Mrs. Vanderlyn laughed with more assurance. She got up and held out a hand.

“Dear M. Poirot, I do wish you all success. Thank you for all the charming things you have said to me.”

She went out. Poirot murmured to himself:

“You wish me success, do you? Ah, but you are very sure I am not  going  to meet  with  success! Yes, you  are very  sure indeed. That, it annoys me very much.”

With  a  certain  petulance,  he  pulled  the  bell  and  asked that Mademoiselle Leonie might be sent to him.

His  eyes  roamed  over  her  appreciatively  as  she  stood hesitating  in  the  doorway,  demure  in  her  black  dress  with her  neatly  parted  black  waves  of  hair  and  her  modestly-dropped eyelids. He nodded slow approval.

“Come  in,  Mademoiselle  Leonie,”  he  said.  “Do  not  be afraid.”

She came in and stood demurely before him.

“Do you know,” said Poirot with a sudden change of tone, “that I find you very good to look at.”

Leonie responded promptly. She flashed him a glance out of the corner of her eyes and murmured softly:

“Monsieur is very kind.”

“Figure  to  yourself,”  said  Poirot.  “I  demand  of  M.  Carlile whether you are or not good-looking and he replies that he does not know!”

Leonie cocked her chin up contemptuously. “That image!”

“That describes him very well.”

“I do not believe he has ever looked at a girl  in his life, that one.”

“Probably not. A pity. He has missed a lot. But there are others in this house who are more appreciative, is it not so?”

“Really, I do not know what monsieur means.”

“Oh,  yes,  Mademoiselle  Leonie,  you  know  very  well.  A pretty history that you recount last night about a ghost that you have seen. As soon as I hear that you are standing there with your hands to your head, I know very well that there is no question  of ghosts. If a girl  is frightened  she clasps her heart, or she raises her hands to her mouth  to stifle a cry, but  if  her  hands  are  on  her  hair  it  means  something  very different. It  means  that  her  hair  has  been  ruffled  and  that she   is   hastily   getting   it   into   shape   again!   Now   then, mademoiselle, let us have the truth. Why did you scream on the stairs?”

“But monsieur it is true, I saw a tall figure all in white―” “Mademoiselle, do not insult my intelligence. That story,

it  may  have been  good  enough  for M. Carlile, but  it  is not good  enough  for  Hercule  Poirot.  The  truth  is  that  you  had just been kissed, is it not so? And I will make a guess that it was M. Reggie Carrington who kissed you.”

Leonie twinkled an unabashed eye at him.

“Eh bien,” she demanded, “after all, what is a kiss?” “What, indeed?” said Poirot gallantly.

“You  see,  the  young  gentleman  he  came  up  behind  me and caught me round the waist―and so naturally he startled me  and  I  screamed.  If  I  had  known―well,  then  naturally  I would not have screamed.”

“Naturally,” agreed Poirot.

“But  he  came  upon  me  like  a  cat.  Then  the  study  door opened   and   out   came   M.   le   secrétaire   and   the   young gentleman  slipped  away  upstairs  and  there  I  was  looking like a fool. Naturally I had to say something―especially to―” she   broke   into   French,   “un   jeune   homme   comme   ça, tellement comme il faut!”

“So you invent a ghost?”

“Indeed, monsieur, it was all I could think of. A tall figure all in white, that floated. It is ridiculous but what else could I do?”

“Nothing.  So  now,  all  is  explained.  I  had  my  suspicions from the first.”

Leonie shot him a provocative glance.

“Monsieur is very clever, and very sympathetic.”

“And since I am not going to make you any embarrassments over the affair you will do something for me in return?”

“Most willingly, monsieur.”

“How much do you know of your mistress’s affairs?” The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“Not very much, monsieur. I have my ideas, of course.” “And those ideas?”

“Well, it does not escape me that the friends of madame are always soldiers or sailors or airmen. And then there are other friends―foreign gentlemen who come to see her very quietly sometimes. Madame is very handsome, though I do not think she will be so much longer. The young men, they find  her  very  attractive.  Sometimes  I  think,  they  say  too much. But it is only my idea, that. Madame does not confide in me.”

“What you would have me to understand is that madame plays a lone hand?”

“That is right, monsieur.”

“In other words, you cannot help me.”

“I fear not, monsieur. I would do if I could.”

“Tell me, your mistress is in a good mood today?” “Decidedly, monsieur.”

“Something has happened to please her?”

“She has been in good spirits ever since she came here.” “Well, Leonie, you should know.”

The girl answered confidently:

“Yes, monsieur. I could not be mistaken there. I know all madame’s moods. She is in high spirits.”

“Positively triumphant?”

“That is exactly the word, monsieur.” Poirot nodded gloomily.

“I find that―a little hard to bear. Yet I perceive that it is inevitable. Thank you, mademoiselle, that is all.”

Leonie threw him a coquettish glance.

“Thank you, monsieur. If I meet monsieur on the stairs, be well-assured that I shall not scream.”

“My  child,”  said  Poirot  with  dignity.  “I  am  of  advanced years. What have I to do with such frivolities?”

But  with  a  little  twitter  of  laughter,  Leonie  took  herself off.

Poirot  paced   slowly  up   and   down   the  room.  His  face became grave and anxious.

“And now,” he said at last, “for Lady Julia. What will she say, I wonder?”

Lady   Julia   came   into   the   room   with   a   quiet   air   of assurance. She bent her head graciously, accepted the chair that Poirot drew forward and spoke in a low, well-bred voice.

“Lord   Mayfield   says   that   you   wish   to   ask   me   some questions.”

“Yes, madame. It is about last night.” “About last night, yes?”

“What  happened  after  you  had  finished  your  game  of bridge?”

“My husband thought it was too late to begin  another. I went up to bed.”

“And then?”

“I went to sleep.” “That is all?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of much interest. When did this”―she hesitated―“burglary occur?”

“Very soon after you went upstairs.” “I see. And what exactly was taken?” “Some private papers, madame.” “Important papers?”

“Very important.”

She frowned a little and then said: “They were―valuable?”

“Yes, madame, they were worth a good deal of money.” “I see.”

There was a pause, and then Poirot said: “What about your book, madame?”

“My book?” She raised bewildered eyes to him.

“Yes, I understand Mrs. Vanderlyn to say that some time after  you  three  ladies  had  retired  you  went  down  again  to fetch a book.”

“Yes, of course, so I did.”

“So that, as a matter of  fact, you  did  not go straight  to bed  when  you  went  upstairs?  You  returned  to  the  drawing room?”

“Yes, that is true. I had forgotten.”

“While   you   were   in   the   drawing   room,  did   you   hear someone scream?”

“No―yes―I don’t think so.”

“Surely, madame. You could not have failed to hear it in the drawing room.”

Lady Julia flung her head back and said firmly: “I heard nothing.”

Poirot raised his eyebrows, but did not reply.

The silence grew uncomfortable. Lady Julia asked abruptly:

“What is being done?”

“Being done? I do not understand you, madame.”

“I  mean  about  the  robbery.  Surely  the  police  must  be doing something.”

Poirot shook his head.

“The police have not been called in. I am in charge.”

She  stared  at  him, her  restless haggard  face  sharpened and  tense.  Her  eyes,  dark  and  searching,  sought  to  pierce his impassivity.

They fell at last―defeated.

“You cannot tell me what is being done?”

“I  can  only  assure  you,  madame,  that  I  am  leaving  no stone unturned.”

“To catch the thief―or to―recover the papers?”

“The recovery of the papers is the main thing, madame.” Her manner changed. It became bored, listless.

“Yes,” she said indifferently. “I suppose it is.” There was another pause.

“Is there anything else, M. Poirot?”

“No, madame. I will not detain you further.” “Thank you.”

He  opened  the  door  for  her.  She  passed  out  without glancing at him.

Poirot went back to the fireplace and carefully rearranged the  ornaments on  the  mantelpiece.  He  was still  at  it  when Lord Mayfield came in through the window.

“Well?” said the latter.

“Very well, I think. Events are shaping themselves as they should.”

Lord Mayfield said, staring at him: “You are pleased.”

“No, I am not pleased. But I am content.” “Really, M. Poirot, I cannot make you out.” “I am not such a charlatan as you think.”

“I never said―”

“No, but you thought! No matter. I am not offended. It is sometimes necessary for me to adopt a certain pose.”

Lord  Mayfield  looked  at  him  doubtfully  with  a  certain amount  of  distrust.  Hercule  Poirot  was  a  man  he  did  not understand.   He   wanted   to   despise   him,   but   something warned him that this ridiculous little man was not so futile as he  appeared.  Charles  McLaughlin  had  always  been  able  to recognize capability when he saw it.

“Well,”  he  said,  “we  are  in  your  hands.  What  do  you advise next?”

“Can you get rid of your guests?”

“I  think  it  might  be  arranged  .  .  .  I  could  explain  that  I have to go to London over this affair. They will then probably offer to leave.”

“Very good. Try and arrange it like that.” Lord Mayfield hesitated.

“You don’t think―?”

“I  am  quite  sure  that  that  would  be  the  wise  course  to take.”

Lord Mayfield shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you say so.”

He went out.

VIII

The guests left after lunch. Mrs. Vanderlyn and Mrs. Macatta went  by  train,  the  Carringtons  had  their  car.  Poirot  was standing  in  the  hall  as  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  bade  her  host  a charming farewell.

“So terribly sorry for you having this bother and anxiety. I do hope it will  turn out all  right for you. I shan’t breathe a word of anything.”

She pressed his hand and went out to where the Rolls was waiting to take her to the station. Mrs. Macatta was already inside. Her adieu had been curt and unsympathetic.

Suddenly Leonie, who had been getting in front with the chauffeur, came running back into the hall.

“The dressing case of madame, it is not in the car,” she exclaimed.

There   was   a   hurried search.   At   last   Lord Mayfield discovered it where it had been put down in the shadow of an  old  oak  chest.  Leonie  uttered  a  glad  little  cry  as  she seized the elegant affair of green morocco, and hurried out with it.

Then Mrs. Vanderlyn leaned out of the car.

“Lord  Mayfield, Lord  Mayfield.” She handed  him a letter. “Would  you  mind  putting  this in  your postbag?  If  I  keep  it meaning  to  post  it  in  town,  I’m  sure  to  forget.  Letters  just stay in my bag for days.”

Sir   George   Carrington   was   fidgeting   with   his   watch, opening and shutting it. He was a maniac for punctuality.

“They’re cutting it fine,” he murmured. “Very fine. Unless they’re careful, they’ll miss the train―”

His wife said irritably:

“Oh,  don’t  fuss,  George.  After  all,  it’s  their  train,  not ours!”

He looked at her reproachfully. The Rolls drove off.

Reggie  drew  up  at  the  front  door  in  the  Carringtons’ Morris.

“All ready, Father,” he said.

The servants began bringing out the Carringtons’ luggage. Reggie supervised its disposal in the dickey.

Poirot moved out of the   front door,   watching the proceedings.

Suddenly  he  felt  a  hand  on  his  arm.  Lady  Julia’s  voice spoke in an agitated whisper.

“M. Poirot. I must speak to you―at once.”

He  yielded  to  her  insistent  hand.  She  drew  him  into  a small morning room and closed the door. She came close to him.

“Is it true what you said―that the discovery of the papers is what matters most to Lord Mayfield?”

Poirot looked at her curiously. “It is quite true, madame.”

“If―if  those  papers  were  returned   to  you,  would   you undertake that they should be given back to Lord Mayfield, and no question asked?”

“I am not sure that I understand you.”

“You  must! I am sure that  you  do! I am suggesting  that the―the  thief  should  remain  anonymous  if  the  papers  are returned.”

Poirot asked:

“How soon would that be, madame?” “Definitely within twelve hours.” “You can promise that?”

“I can promise it.”

As he did not answer, she repeated urgently:

“Will you guarantee that there will be no publicity?” He answered then―very gravely:

“Yes, madame, I will guarantee that.” “Then everything can be arranged.”

She  passed   abruptly   from  the  room.  A   moment   later Poirot heard the car drive away.

He  crossed  the  hall  and  went  along  the  passage  to  the study.   Lord   Mayfield   was   there.   He   looked   up   as   Poirot entered.

“Well?” he said.

Poirot spread out his hands.

“The case is ended, Lord Mayfield.” “What?”

Poirot repeated word for word the scene between himself and Lady Julia.

Lord Mayfield looked at him with a stupefied expression. “But what does it mean? I don’t understand.”

“It is very clear, is it not? Lady Julia knows who stole the plans.”

“You don’t mean she took them herself?”

“Certainly not. Lady Julia may be a gambler. She is not a thief. But if she offers to return the plans, it means that they were  taken  by  her  husband  or  her  son.  Now  Sir  George Carrington was out on the terrace with you. That leaves us the  son.  I  think  I  can  reconstruct  the  happenings  of  last night fairly accurately. Lady Julia went to her son’s room last night  and  found  it  empty. She came downstairs to look  for him,  but  did  not  find  him.  This  morning  she  hears  of  the theft, and she also hears that her son declares that he went straight to his room and never left it. That, she knows, is not true.  And  she  knows  something  else  about  her  son.  She knows  that  he  is  weak,  that  he  is  desperately  hard  up  for money. She has observed his infatuation for Mrs. Vanderlyn. The   whole   thing is   clear   to   her.   Mrs.   Vanderlyn has persuaded Reggie to steal the plans. But she determines to play  her  part  also.  She  will  tackle  Reggie,  get  hold  of  the papers and return them.”

“But  the  whole  thing   is  quite  impossible,”  cried   Lord Mayfield.

“Yes, it is impossible, but Lady Julia does not know that. She does not know what I, Hercule Poirot, know, that young Reggie  Carrington  was  not  stealing  papers  last  night,  but

instead   was   philandering   with   Mrs.   Vanderlyn’s   French maid.”

“The whole thing is a mare’s nest!” “Exactly.”

“And the case is not ended at all!”

“Yes, it is ended. I, Hercule Poirot, know the truth. You do not  believe  me?  You  did  not  believe  me  yesterday  when  I said I knew where the plans were. But I did know. They were very close at hand.”

“Where?”

“They were in your pocket, my lord.”

There was a pause, then Lord Mayfield said:

“Do you really know what you are saying, M. Poirot?”

“Yes, I know. I know that I am speaking  to a very clever man.   From   the   first   it   worried   me   that   you,   who   were admittedly  shortsighted,  should  be  so  positive  about  the figure  you  had  seen  leaving  the  window.  You  wanted  that solution―the  convenient  solution―to  be  accepted.  Why? Later, one by one, I eliminated everyone else. Mrs. Vanderlyn was upstairs, Sir George was with you on the terrace, Reggie Carrington   was   with   the   French   girl   on   the   stairs,   Mrs. Macatta was blamelessly  in  her bedroom. (It  is next  to the housekeeper’s  room,  and  Mrs.  Macatta  snores!)  Lady  Julia clearly believed her son guilty. So there remained only two possibilities.  Either  Carlile  did  not  put  the  papers  on  the desk  but  into  his  own  pocket  (and  that  is  not  reasonable, because, as you pointed out, he could have taken a tracing of  them),  or  else―or  else  the  plans  were  there  when  you walked over to the desk, and the only place they could have gone was into your pocket. In that case everything was clear. Your insistence on the figure you had seen, your insistence on   Carlile’s   innocence,   your   disinclination   to   have   me summoned.

“One  thing  did  puzzle  me―the  motive.  You  were,  I  was convinced, an honest man, a man of integrity. That showed in your anxiety that no innocent person should be suspected.  It  was  also  obvious  that  the  theft  of  the  plans might easily affect your career unfavourably. Why, then, this wholly unreasonable theft? And at last the answer came to me.    The    crisis    in your career, some years    ago,    the assurances given to the world by the Prime Minister that you had   had   no   negotiations   with   the   power   in   question. Suppose that that was not strictly true, that there remained some record―a letter, perhaps―showing that in actual fact you had done what you had publicly denied. Such a denial was  necessary  in  the  interests  of  public  policy.  But  it  is doubtful  if  the  man  in  the  street  would  see  it  that  way.  It might mean that at the moment when supreme power might be given  into  your  hands, some stupid  echo  from the past would undo everything.

“I  suspect  that  that  letter  has  been  preserved  in  the hands   of   a   certain   government,   that   that   government offered  to  trade  with  you―the  letter  in  exchange  for  the plans  of  the  new  bomber.  Some  men  would  have  refused. You―did  not!  You  agreed. Mrs. Vanderlyn  was the agent  in the  matter.  She  came  here  by  arrangement  to  make  the exchange. You gave yourself away when you admitted that you  had  formed  no  definite  stratagem  for  entrapping  her. That   admission   made   your   reason   for   inviting   her   here incredibly weak.

“You arranged the robbery. Pretended to see the thief on the terrace―thereby clearing Carlile of suspicion. Even if he had not left the room, the desk was so near the window that a thief might have taken the plans while Carlile was busy at the safe with his back turned. You walked over to the desk, took the plans and kept them on your own person until the

moment when, by prearranged plan, you slipped them into Mrs. Vanderlyn’s dressing case. In return she handed you the fatal letter disguised as an unposted letter of her own.”

Poirot stopped. Lord Mayfield said:

“Your  knowledge  is  very  complete,  M.  Poirot.  You  must think me an unutterable skunk.”

Poirot made a quick gesture.

“No, no, Lord  Mayfield. I  think, as I  said, that  you  are a very clever man. It came to me suddenly as we talked here last  night.  You  are  a  first-class  engineer.  There  will  be,  I think,  some  subtle  alterations  in  the  specifications  of  that bomber, alterations done so skilfully that it will be difficult to grasp why the machine is not the success it ought to be. A certain foreign power will find the type a failure . . . It will be a disappointment to them, I am sure. . . .”

Again there was a silence―then Lord Mayfield said:

“You are much too clever, M. Poirot. I will only ask you to believe one thing. I have faith in myself. I believe that I am the man  to guide England  through  the days of crisis that I see coming. If I did not honestly believe that I am needed by my country to steer the ship of state, I would not have done what  I  have  done―made  the  best  of  both  worlds―saved myself from disaster by a clever trick.”

“My lord,” said Poirot, “if you could not make the best of both worlds, you could not be a politician!”

Lady Julia Carrington was a woman of forty, tall, dark and vivacious.

She was very thin, but still beautiful.

Her hands and feet in particular were exquisite. Her manner was abrupt

and restless, that of a woman who lived on her nerves.

About opposite to her at the round table sat her husband,

Air Marshal Sir George Carrington. His career had begun in

the Navy, and he still retained the bluff breeziness of the ex-

Naval man. He was laughing and chaffing the beautiful Mrs.

Vanderlyn, who was sitting on the other side of her host.

Mrs. Vanderlyn was an extremely good-looking blonde.

Her voice held a soupçon of American accent, just enough to

be pleasant without undue exaggeration.

On the other side of Sir George Carrington sat Mrs.

Macatta, M.P. Mrs. Macatta was a great authority on Housingand Infant Welfare. She barked out short sentences rather

than spoke them, and was generally of somewhat alarming

aspect. It was perhaps natural that the Air Marshal would

find his right-hand neighbour the pleasanter to talk to.

Mrs. Macatta, who always talked shop wherever she was,

barked out short spates of information on her special

subjects to her left-hand neighbour, young Reggie

Carrington.

Reggie Carrington was twenty-one, and completely

uninterested in Housing, Infant Welfare, and indeed any

political subject. He said at intervals,

“How frightful!” and “I

absolutely agree with you,

” and his mind was clearly

elsewhere. Mr. Carlile, Lord Mayfield’s private secretary, sat

between young Reggie and his mother. A pale young man

with pince-nez and an air of intelligent reserve, he talked

little, but was always ready to fling himself into any

conversational breach. Noticing that Reggie Carrington was

struggling with a yawn, he leaned forward and adroitly

asked Mrs. Macatta a question about her “Fitness for

Children” scheme.

Round the table,