Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

half of affection, I picked up the coat and stretched out my hand for the clothes brush.

      The next morning, hearing nothing from Poirot, I went out for a stroll, met some old friends, and lunched with them at their hotel. In the afternoon we went for a spin. A punctured tyre delayed us, and it was past eight when I got back to the Grand Metropolitan.

      The first sight that met my eyes was Poirot, looking even more diminutive than usual, sandwiched between the Opalsens, beaming in a state of placid satisfaction.

      ‘Mon ami Hastings!’ he cried, and sprang to meet me. ‘Embrace me, my friend; all has marched to a marvel!’

      Luckily, the embrace was merely figurative – not a thing one is always sure of with Poirot.

      ‘Do you mean –’ I began.

      ‘Just wonderful, I call it!’ said Mrs Opalsen, smiling all over her fat face. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Ed, that if he couldn’t get back my pearls nobody would?’

      ‘You did, my dear, you did. And you were right.’

      I looked helplessly at Poirot, and he answered the glance.

      ‘My friend Hastings is, as you say in England, all at the seaside. Seat yourself, and I will recount to you all the affair that has so happily ended.’

      ‘Ended?’

      ‘But yes. They are arrested.’

      ‘Who are arrested?’

      ‘The chambermaid and the valet, parbleu! You did not suspect? Not with my parting hint about the French chalk?’

      ‘You said cabinet-makers used it.’

      ‘Certainly they do – to make drawers slide easily. Somebody wanted the drawer to slide in and out without any noise. Who could that be? Obviously, only the chambermaid. The plan was so ingenious that it did not at once leap to the eye – not even to the eye of Hercule Poirot.

      ‘Listen, this was how it was done. The valet was in the empty room next door, waiting. The French maid leaves the room. Quick as a flash the chambermaid whips open the drawer, takes out the jewel-case and, slipping back the bolt, passes it through the door. The valet opens it at his leisure with the duplicate key with which he has provided himself, extracts the necklace, and waits his time. Célestine leaves the room again, and – pst! – in a flash the case is passed back again and replaced in the drawer.

      ‘Madame arrives, the theft is discovered. The chambermaid demands to be searched, with a good deal of righteous indignation, and leaves the room without a stain on her character. The imitation necklace with which they have provided themselves has been concealed in the French girl’s bed that morning by the chambermaid – a master stroke, ça!’

      ‘But what did you go to London for?’

      ‘You remember the card?’

      ‘Certainly. It puzzled me – and puzzles me still. I thought –’

      I hesitated delicately, glancing at Mr Opalsen.

      Poirot laughed heartily.

      ‘Une blague! For the benefit of the valet. The card was one with a specially prepared surface – for fingerprints. I went straight to Scotland Yard, asked for our old friend Inspector Japp, and laid the facts before him. As I had suspected, the fingerprints proved to be those of two well-known jewel thieves who have been “wanted” for some time. Japp came down with me, the thieves were arrested, and the necklace was discovered in the valet’s possession. A clever pair, but they failed in method. Have I not told you, Hastings, at least thirty-six times, that without method –’

      ‘At least thirty-six thousand times!’ I interrupted. ‘But where did their “method” break down?’

      ‘Mon ami, it is a good plan to take a place as chambermaid or valet – but you must not shirk your work. They left an empty room undusted; and therefore, when the man put down the jewel-case on the little table near the communicating door, it left a square mark –’

      ‘I remember,’ I cried.

      ‘Before, I was undecided. Then – I knew!’

      There was a moment’s silence.

      ‘And I’ve got my pearls,’ said Mrs Opalsen as a sort of Greek chorus.

      ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’d better have some dinner.’

      Poirot accompanied me.

      ‘This ought to mean kudos for you,’ I observed.

      ‘Pas du tout,’ replied Poirot tranquilly. ‘Japp and the local inspector will divide the credit between them. But’ – he tapped his pocket – ‘I have a cheque here, from Mr Opalsen, and, how you say, my friend? This weekend has not gone according to plan. Shall we return here next weekend – at my expense this time?’

       3 The King of Clubs

      ‘The King of Clubs’ was first published as ‘The Adventure of the King of Clubs’ in The Sketch, 21 March 1923.

      ‘Truth,’ I observed, laying aside the Daily Newsmonger, ‘is stranger than fiction!’

      The remark was not, perhaps, an original one. It appeared to incense my friend. Tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, the little man carefully flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his carefully creased trousers, and observed: ‘How profound! What a thinker is my friend Hastings!’

      Without displaying any annoyance at this quite uncalled-for gibe, I tapped the sheet I had laid aside.

      ‘You’ve read this morning’s paper?’

      ‘I have. And after reading it, I folded it anew symmetrically. I did not cast it on the floor as you have done, with your so lamentable absence of order and method.’

      (That is the worst of Poirot. Order and Method are his gods. He goes so far as to attribute all his success to them.)

      ‘Then you saw the account of the murder of Henry Reedburn, the impresario? It was that which prompted my remark. Not only is truth stranger than fiction – it is more dramatic. Think of that solid middle-class English family, the Oglanders. Father and mother, son and daughter, typical of thousands of families all over this country. The men of the family go to the city every day; the women look after the house. Their lives are perfectly peaceful, and utterly monotonous. Last night they were sitting in their neat suburban drawing-room at Daisymead, Streatham, playing bridge. Suddenly, without any warning, the french window bursts open, and a woman staggers into the room. Her grey satin frock is marked with a crimson stain. She utters one word, “Murder!” before she sinks to the ground insensible. It is possible that they recognize her from her pictures as Valerie Saintclair, the famous dancer who has lately taken London by storm!’

      ‘Is this your eloquence, or that of the Daily Newsmonger?’ inquired Poirot.

      ‘The Daily Newsmonger was in a hurry to go to press, and contented itself with bare facts. But the dramatic possibilities of the story struck me at once.’

      Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘Wherever there is human nature, there is drama. But – it is not always just where you think it is. Remember that. Still, I too am interested in the case, since it is likely that I shall be connected with it.’

      ‘Indeed?’

      ‘Yes. A gentleman rang me up this morning, and made an appointment with me on behalf of Prince Paul of Maurania.’

      ‘But what has that to do with it?’

      ‘You do not read your pretty little English scandal-papers. The ones with the funny stories, and “a little mouse has heard –” or “a little bird would like to know –” See here.’

      I