Poirot Investigates. Agatha Christie

      “Through this door.”

      “But it’s always locked.”

      I shook my head. “It’s not locked now. See.” I pulled it open as I spoke.

      As I did so something fluttered to the ground. I picked it up. It was a piece of silk, and the embroidery was unmistakable. It had been torn from a Chinaman’s robe.

      “In his haste it caught in the door,” I explained. “Come, hurry. He cannot have gone far as yet.”

      But in vain we hunted and searched. In the pitch darkness of the night, the thief had found it easy to make his getaway. We returned reluctantly, and Lord Yardly sent off one of the footmen post-haste to fetch the police.

      Lady Yardly, aptly ministered to by Poirot, who is as good as a woman in these matters, was sufficiently recovered to be able to tell her story.

      “I was just going to turn on the other light,” she said, “when a man sprang on me from behind. He tore my necklace from my neck with such force that I fell headlong to the floor. As I fell I saw him disappearing through the side door. Then I realized by the pig-tail and the embroidered robe that he was a Chinaman.” She stopped with a shudder.

      The butler reappeared. He spoke in a low voice to Lord Yardly.

      “A gentleman from Mr. Hoffberg’s, m’lord. He says you expect him.”

      “Good heavens!” cried the distracted nobleman. “I must see him, I suppose. No, not here, Mullings, in the library.”

      I drew Poirot aside.

      “Look here, my dear fellow, hadn’t we better get back to London?”

      “You think so, Hastings? Why?”

      “Well”—I coughed delicately—“things haven’t gone very well, have they? I mean, you tell Lord Yardly to place himself in your hands and all will be well—and then the diamond vanishes from under your very nose!”

      “True,” said Poirot, rather crestfallen. “It was not one of my most striking triumphs.”

      This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I stuck to my guns.

      “So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things, don’t you think it would be more graceful to leave immediately?”

      “And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the chef of Lord Yardly has prepared?”

      “Oh, what’s dinner!” I said impatiently.

      Poirot held up his hands in horror.

      “Mon Dieu! It is that in this country you treat the affairs gastronomic with a criminal indifference.”

      “There’s another reason why we should get back to London as soon as possible,” I continued.

      “What is that, my friend?”

      “The other diamond,” I said, lowering my voice. “Miss Marvell’s.”

      “Eh bien, what of it?”

      “Don’t you see?” His unusual obtuseness annoyed me. What had happened to his usually keen wits? “They’ve got one, now they’ll go for the other.”

      “Tiens!” cried Poirot, stepping back a pace and regarding me with admiration. “But your brain marches to a marvel, my friend! Figure to yourself that for the moment I had not thought of that! But there is plenty of time. The full of the moon, it is not until Friday.”

      I shook my head dubiously. The full of the moon theory left me entirely cold. I had my way with Poirot, however, and we departed immediately, leaving behind us a note of explanation and apology for Lord Yardly.

      My idea was to go at once to the Magnificent, and relate to Miss Marvell what had occurred, but Poirot vetoed the plan, and insisted that the morning would be time enough. I gave in rather grudgingly.

      In the morning Poirot seemed strangely disinclined to stir out. I began to suspect that, having made a mistake to start with, he was singularly loath to proceed with the case. In answer to my persuasions, he pointed out, with admirable common sense, that as the details of the affair at Yardly Chase were already in the morning papers the Rolfs would know quite as much as we could tell them. I gave way unwillingly.

      Events proved my forebodings to be justified. About two o’clock, the telephone rang. Poirot answered it. He listened for some moments, then with a brief “Bien, j’y serai” he rang off, and turned to me.

      “What do you think, mon ami?” He looked half ashamed, half excited. “The diamond of Miss Marvell, it has been stolen.”

      “What?” I cried, springing up. “And what about the ‘full of the moon’ now?” Poirot hung his head. “When did this happen?”

      “This morning, I understand.”

      I shook my head sadly. “If only you had listened to me. You see I was right.”

      “It appears so, mon ami,” said Poirot cautiously. “Appearances are deceptive, they say, but it certainly appears so.”

      As we hurried in a taxi to the Magnificent, I puzzled out the true inwardness of the scheme.

      “That ‘full of the moon’ idea was clever. The whole point of it was to get us to concentrate on the Friday, and so be off our guard beforehand. It is a pity you did not realize that.”

      “Ma foi!” said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored after its brief eclipse. “One cannot think of everything!”

      I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind.

      “Cheer up,” I said consolingly. “Better luck next time.”

      At the Magnificent, we were ushered at once into the manager’s office. Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A pale-faced clerk sat opposite them.

      Rolf nodded to us as we entered.

      “We’re getting to the bottom of it,” he said. “But it’s almost unbelievable. How the guy had the nerve I can’t think.”

      A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr. Rolf had gone out of the hotel at 11.15. At 11.30, a gentleman, so like him in appearance as to pass muster, entered the hotel and demanded the jewel-case from the safe deposit. He duly signed the receipt, remarking carelessly as he did so: “Looks a bit different from my ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi.” The clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference. Rolf laughed and said: “Well, don’t run me in as a crook this time, anyway. I’ve been getting threatening letters from a Chinaman, and the worst of it is I look rather like a Chink myself—it’s something about the eyes.”

      “I looked at him,” said the clerk who was telling us this, “and I saw at once what he meant. The eyes slanted up at the corners like an Oriental’s. I’d never noticed it before.”

      “Darn it all, man,” roared Gregory Rolf, leaning forward, “do you notice it now?”

      The man looked up at him and started.

      “No, sir,” he said. “I can’t say I do.” And indeed there was nothing even remotely Oriental about the frank brown eyes that looked into ours.

      The Scotland Yard man grunted. “Bold customer. Thought the eyes might be noticed, and took the bull by the horns to disarm suspicion. He must have watched you out of the hotel, sir, and nipped in as soon as you were well away.”

      “What about the jewel-case?” I asked.

      “It was found in a corridor of the hotel. Only one thing had been taken—‘the Western Star.’”

      We stared at each other—the whole thing was so bizarre, so unreal.

      Poirot hopped briskly to his feet. “I have not been