Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

both looked at Poirot. ‘What do you say, monsieur?’

      For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted across his face.

      ‘My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should hide? In a prison!’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison, so you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there!’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless I think if you took her up to Bow Street and confronted her with the man Billy Kellett she would recognize him! In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived.’

      ‘Billy Kellett? But he’s known to the police!’

      ‘Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn – he was creating the character of Billy Kellett, “doing three months”, so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune, as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only –’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy – it invites detection! He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He went to the boathouse, donned his “tramp” clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!’

      ‘It’s impossible,’ murmured Japp.

      ‘Ask Madame,’ said my friend, smiling.

      The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He opened it and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow puckered.

      ‘Ah, sacré! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre Japp? Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child – mille tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?’

       5 The Plymouth Express

      ‘The Plymouth Express’ was first published as ‘The Mystery of the Plymouth Express’ in The Sketch, 4 April 1923.

      Alec Simpson, RN, stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor stopped him.

      ‘No – leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.

      Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: ‘Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop.’ Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station.

      Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!

      He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.

      At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavoured to shove it under the opposite seat – without success. Some obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out half-way into the carriage.

      ‘Why the devil won’t it go in?’ he muttered, and hauling it out completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat …

      A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication cord.

      ‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘you have, I know, been deeply interested in this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.’

      I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to the point.

      Dear Sir,

      I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest convenience.

      Yours faithfully,

       EBENEZER HALLIDAY

      The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at Poirot.

      For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud: ‘“A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment the body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled the communication cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. The woman, who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not yet been identified.”

      ‘And later we have this: “The woman found dead in the Plymouth Express has been identified as the Honourable Mrs Rupert Carrington.” You see now, my friend? Or if you do not I will add this – Mrs Rupert Carrington was, before her marriage, Flossie Halliday, daughter of old man Halliday, the steel king of America.’

      ‘And he has sent for you? Splendid!’

      ‘I did him a little service in the past – an affair of bearer bonds. And once, when I was in Paris for a royal visit, I had Mademoiselle Flossie pointed out to me. La jolie petite pensionnaire! She had the joli dot too! It caused trouble. She nearly made a bad affair.’

      ‘How was that?’

      ‘A certain Count de la Rochefour. Un bien mauvais sujet! A bad hat, as you would say. An adventurer pure and simple, who knew how to appeal to a romantic young girl. Luckily her father got wind of it in time. He took her back to America in haste. I heard of her marriage some years later, but I know nothing of her husband.’

      ‘H’m,’ I said. ‘The Honourable Rupert Carrington is no beauty, by all accounts. He’d pretty well run through his own money on the turf, and I should imagine old man Halliday’s dollars came along in the nick of time. I should say that for a good-looking, well-mannered, utterly unscrupulous young scoundrel, it would be hard to find his mate!’

      ‘Ah, the poor little lady! Elle n’est pas bien tombée!’

      ‘I fancy he made it pretty obvious at once that it was her money, and not she, that had attracted him. I believe they drifted apart almost at once. I have heard rumours lately that there was to be a definite legal separation.’

      ‘Old man Halliday is no fool. He would tie up her money pretty tight.’

      ‘I dare say. Anyway, I know as a fact that the Honourable Rupert is said to be extremely hard up.’

      ‘Aha! I wonder –’

      ‘You wonder what?’

      ‘My good friend, do not jump down my throat like that. You are interested, I see. Suppose you accompany me to see Mr Halliday. There is a taxi-stand at the corner.’

      A