Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

is curious,’ murmured Poirot reminiscently, ‘that I should have uttered a wish to work against the law just before Lady Millicent arrived!’

      ‘You are going to burgle his house while he is away?’ I gasped.

      ‘Sometimes, Hastings, your mental processes are amazingly quick.’

      ‘Suppose he takes the letter with him?’

      Poirot shook his head.

      ‘That is very unlikely. He has evidently a hiding-place in his house that he fancies to be pretty impregnable.’

      ‘When do we – er – do the deed?’

      ‘Tomorrow night. We will start from here about eleven o’clock.’

      At the time appointed I was ready to set off. I had donned a dark suit, and a soft dark hat. Poirot beamed kindly on me.

      ‘You have dressed the part, I see,’ he observed. ‘Come let us take the underground to Wimbledon.’

      ‘Aren’t we going to take anything with us? Tools to break in with?’

      ‘My dear Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not adopt such crude methods.’

      I retired, snubbed, but my curiosity was alert.

      It was just on midnight that we entered the small suburban garden of Buona Vista. The house was dark and silent. Poirot went straight to a window at the back of the house, raised the sash noiselessly and bade me enter.

      ‘How did you know this window would be open?’ I whispered, for really it seemed uncanny.

      ‘Because I sawed through the catch this morning.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘But yes, it was most simple. I called, presented a fictitious card and one of Inspector Japp’s official ones. I said I had been sent, recommended by Scotland Yard, to attend to some burglar-proof fastenings that Mr Lavington wanted fixed while he was away. The housekeeper welcomed me with enthusiasm. It seems they have had two attempted burglaries here lately – evidently our little idea has occurred to other clients of Mr Lavington’s – with nothing of value taken. I examined all the windows, made my little arrangement, forbade the servants to touch the windows until tomorrow, as they were electrically connected up, and withdrew gracefully.’

      ‘Really, Poirot, you are wonderful.’

      ‘Mon ami, it was of the simplest. Now, to work! The servants sleep at the top of the house, so we will run little risk of disturbing them.’

      ‘I presume the safe is built into the wall somewhere?’

      ‘Safe? Fiddlesticks! There is no safe. Mr Lavington is an intelligent man. You will see, he will have devised a hiding-place much more intelligent than a safe. A safe is the first thing everyone looks for.’

      Whereupon we began a systematic search of the entire place. But after several hours’ ransacking of the house, our search had been unavailing. I saw symptoms of anger gathering on Poirot’s face.

      ‘Ah, sapristi, is Hercule Poirot to be beaten? Never! Let us be calm. Let us reflect. Let us reason. Let us – enfin! – employ our little grey cells!’

      He paused for some moments, bending his brows in concentration; then the green light I knew so well stole into his eyes.

      ‘I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!’

      ‘The kitchen,’ I cried. ‘But that’s impossible. The servants!’

      ‘Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!’

      I followed him, completely sceptical, and watched whilst he dived into bread-bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas-oven. In the end, tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there, and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search, noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.

      To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coal-bin, to the utter ruin of his neat light suit. He made a grimace.

      ‘But yes, my friend, it is against all my instincts so to ruin my appearance, but what will you?’

      ‘But Lavington can’t have buried it under the coal?’

      ‘If you would use your eyes, you would see that it is not the coal that I examine.’

      I then saw on a shelf behind the coal-bunker some logs of wood were piled. Poirot was dexterously taking them down one by one. Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation.

      ‘Your knife, Hastings!’

      I handed it to him. He appeared to inset it in the wood, and suddenly the log split in two. It had been neatly sawn in half and a cavity hollowed out in the centre. From this cavity Poirot took a little wooden box of Chinese make.

      ‘Well done!’ I cried, carried out of myself.

      ‘Gently, Hastings! Do not raise your voice too much. Come, let us be off, before the daylight is upon us.’

      Slipping the box into his pocket, he leaped lightly out of the coal-bunker, brushed himself down as well as he could, and leaving the house by the same way as we had come, we walked rapidly in the direction of London.

      ‘But what an extraordinary place!’ I expostulated. ‘Anyone might have used the log.’

      ‘In July, Hastings? And it was at the bottom of the pile – a very ingenious hiding-place. Ah, here is a taxi! Now for home, a wash, and a refreshing sleep.’

      After the excitement of the night, I slept late. When I finally strolled into our sitting-room just before one o’clock, I was surprised to see Poirot, leaning back in an armchair, the Chinese box open beside him, calmly reading the letter he had taken from it.

      He smiled at me affectionately, and tapped the sheet he held.

      ‘She was right, the Lady Millicent; never would the Duke have pardoned this letter! It contains some of the most extravagant terms of affection I have ever come across.’

      ‘Really, Poirot,’ I said, rather disgustedly, ‘I don’t think you should have read the letter. That’s the sort of thing that isn’t done.’

      ‘It is done by Hercule Poirot,’ replied my friend imperturbably.

      ‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘I don’t think using Japp’s official card yesterday was quite playing the game.’

      ‘But I was not playing a game, Hastings. I was conducting a case.’

      I shrugged my shoulders. One can’t argue with a point of view.

      ‘A step on the stairs,’ said Poirot. ‘That will be Lady Millicent.’

      Our fair client came in with an anxious expression on her face which changed to one of delight on seeing the letter and box which Poirot held up.

      ‘Oh, M. Poirot. How wonderful of you! How did you do it?’

      ‘By rather reprehensible methods, milady. But Mr Lavington will not prosecute. This is your letter, is it not?’

      She glanced through it.

      ‘Yes. Oh, how can I ever thank you! You are a wonderful, wonderful man. Where was it hidden?’

      Poirot told her.

      ‘How very clever of you!’ She took up the small box from the table. ‘I shall keep this as a souvenir.’

      ‘I had hoped, milady, that you would permit me to keep it – also as a souvenir.’

      ‘I hope to send you a better souvenir than that – on my wedding-day. You shall not