Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

In the meantime, there’d be only people I could trust in the house: my wife’s secretary, Miss Collins, and Tredwell, the butler, who has been with me since I was a boy.’

      ‘And this Miss Collins, how long has she been with you?’

      ‘Just a year,’ said Mrs Waverly. ‘She has been invaluable to me as a secretary-companion, and is also a very efficient housekeeper.’

      ‘The nurse?’

      ‘She has been with me six months. She came to me with excellent references. All the same, I never really liked her, although Johnnie was quite devoted to her.’

      ‘Still, I gather she had already left when the catastrophe occurred. Perhaps, Monsieur Waverly, you will be so kind as to continue.’

      Mr Waverly resumed his narrative.

      ‘Inspector McNeil arrived about ten-thirty. The servants had all left by then. He declared himself quite satisfied with the internal arrangements. He had various men posted in the park outside, guarding all the approaches to the house, and he assured me that if the whole thing were not a hoax, we should undoubtedly catch my mysterious correspondent.

      ‘I had Johnnie with me, and he and I and the inspector went together into the room we call the council chamber. The inspector locked the door. There is a big grandfather clock there, and as the hands drew near to twelve I don’t mind confessing that I was as nervous as a cat. There was a whirring sound, and the clock began to strike. I clutched at Johnnie. I had a feeling a man might drop from the skies. The last stroke sounded, and as it did so, there was a great commotion outside – shouting and running. The inspector flung up the window, and a constable came running up.

      ‘“We’ve got him sir,” he panted. “He was sneaking up through the bushes. He’s got a whole dope outfit on him.”

      ‘We hurried out on the terrace where two constables were holding a ruffianly-looking fellow in shabby clothes, who was twisting and turning in a vain endeavour to escape. One of the policemen held out an unrolled parcel which they had wrested from their captive. It contained a pad of cotton wool and a bottle of chloroform. It made my blood boil to see it. There was a note, too, addressed to me. I tore it open. It bore the following words: “You should have paid up. To ransom your son will now cost you fifty thousand. In spite of all your precautions he has been abducted on the twenty-ninth as I said.”

      ‘I gave a great laugh, the laugh of relief, but as I did so I heard the hum of a motor and a shout. I turned my head. Racing down the drive towards the south lodge at a furious speed was a low, long grey car. It was the man who drove it who shouted, but that was not what gave me a shock of horror. It was the sight of Johnnie’s flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him.

      ‘The inspector ripped out an oath. “The child was here not a minute ago,” he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss Collins. “When did you last see him, Mr Waverly?”

      ‘I cast my mind back, trying to remember. When the constable had called us, I had run out with the inspector, forgetting all about Johnnie.

      ‘And then there came a sound that startled us, the chiming of a church clock from the village. With an exclamation the inspector pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With one common accord we ran to the council chamber; the clock there marked the hour as ten minutes past. Someone must have deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper.’

      Mr Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat which the anxious father had pushed askew.

      ‘A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming,’ murmured Poirot. ‘I will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned à merveille.’

      Mrs Waverly looked at him reproachfully. ‘But my boy,’ she wailed.

      Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest sympathy again. ‘He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey – no, the goose – that lays the golden eggs?’

      ‘M. Poirot, I’m sure there’s only one thing to be done – pay up. I was all against it at first – but now! A mother’s feelings –’

      ‘But we have interrupted monsieur in his history,’ cried Poirot hastily.

      ‘I expect you know the rest pretty well from the papers,’ said Mr Waverly. ‘Of course, Inspector McNeil got on to the telephone immediately. A description of the car and the man was circulated all round, and it looked at first as though everything was going to turn out all right. A car, answering to the description, with a man and a small boy, had passed through various villages, apparently making for London. At one place they had stopped, and it was noticed that the child was crying and obviously afraid of his companion. When Inspector McNeil announced that the car had been stopped and the man and boy detained, I was almost ill with relief. You know the sequel. The boy was not Johnnie, and the man was an ardent motorist, fond of children, who had picked up a small child playing in the streets of Edenswell, a village about fifteen miles from us, and was kindly giving him a ride. Thanks to the cocksure blundering of the police, all traces have disappeared. Had they not persistently followed the wrong car, they might by now have found the boy.’

      ‘Calm yourself, monsieur. The police are a brave and intelligent force of men. Their mistake was a very natural one. And altogether it was a clever scheme. As to the man they caught in the grounds, I understand that his defence has consisted all along of a persistent denial. He declared that the note and parcel were given to him to deliver at Waverly Court. The man who gave them to him handed him a ten-shilling note and promised him another if it were delivered at exactly ten minutes to twelve. He was to approach the house through the grounds and knock at the side door.’

      ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ declared Mrs Waverly hotly. ‘It’s all a parcel of lies.’

      ‘En verité, it is a thin story,’ said Poirot reflectively. ‘But so far they have not shaken it. I understand, also, that he made a certain accusation?’

      His glance interrogated Mr Waverly. The latter got rather red again.

      ‘The fellow had the impertinence to pretend that he recognized in Tredwell the man who gave him the parcel. “Only the bloke has shaved off his moustache.” Tredwell, who was born on the estate!’

      Poirot smiled a little at the country gentleman’s indignation. ‘Yet you yourself suspect an inmate of the house to have been accessory to the abduction.’

      ‘Yes, but not Tredwell.’

      ‘And you, madame?’ asked Poirot, suddenly turning to her.

      ‘It could not have been Tredwell who gave this tramp the letter and parcel – if anybody ever did, which I don’t believe. It was given him at ten o’clock, he says. At ten o’clock Tredwell was with my husband in the smoking-room.’

      ‘Were you able to see the face of the man in the car, monsieur? Did it resemble that of Tredwell in any way?’

      ‘It was too far away for me to see his face.’

      ‘Has Tredwell a brother, do you know?’

      ‘He had several, but they are all dead. The last one was killed in the war.’

      ‘I am not yet clear as to the grounds of Waverly Court. The car was heading for the south lodge. Is there another entrance?’

      ‘Yes, what we call the east lodge. It can be seen from the other side of the house.’

      ‘It seems to me strange that nobody saw the car entering the grounds.’

      ‘There is a right of way through, and access to a small chapel. A good many cars pass through. The man must have stopped the car in a convenient place and run up to the house just as the alarm was given and attention attracted elsewhere.’

      ‘Unless he was