Famous Detectives On Christmas Duty - Ultimate Murder Mysteries for Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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СКАЧАТЬ Inspector McNeil, for instance—it would be as well to make a few inquiries to establish the facts. One must have consideration for those less gifted than oneself."

      "Good Lord, Poirot! Do you know, I'd give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself—just for once. You're so confoundedly conceited!"

      "Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, I observe that there are times when you almost detest me! Alas! I suffer the penalties of greatness!"

      The little man puffed out his chest and sighed so comically that I was forced to laugh.

      •⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

      Tuesday saw us speeding to Liverpool in a first-class carriage of the L. and N.W.R. Poirot had obstinately refused to enlighten me as to his suspicions—or certainties. He contented himself with expressing surprise that I, too, was not equally au fait with the situation. I disdained to argue and entrenched my curiosity behind a rampart of pretended indifference.

      Once arrived at the quay alongside which lay the big Transatlantic liner, Poirot became brisk and alert. Our proceedings consisted in interviewing four successive stewards and inquiring after a friend of Poirot's who had crossed to New York on the 23rd.

      "An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses. A great invalid, hardly moved out of his cabin."

      The description appeared to tally with one Mr. Ventnor, who had occupied the cabin C₂₄, which was next to that of Philip Ridgeway. Although unable to see how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor's existence and personal appearance, I was keenly excited.

      "Tell me," I cried, "was this gentleman one of the first to land when you got to New York?"

      The steward shook his head.

      "No, indeed, Sir. He was one of the last off the boat."

      I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure.

      "It's all very well," I remarked heatedly; "but that last answer must have damped your precious theory, grin as you please!"

      "As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary, the coping stone of my theory."

      I flung up my hands in despair.

      "I give it up."

      •⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

      Once more we were in a train—speeding towards London this time. Poirot wrote busily for a few minutes, and then sealed up the result in an envelope.

      "This is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard in passing, and then to the Rendez-Vous Restaurant, where I have asked Miss Esmé Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with us."

      "What about Ridgeway?"

      "What about him?" asked Poirot, with a twinkle.

      "Why, you surely don't think—you can't——"

      "The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a matter of fact, I did think. If Ridgeway had been the thief (which was perfectly possible) the case would have been charming—a piece of neat, methodical work."

      "But not so charming for Miss Farquhar."

      "Possibly you are right. Therefore, all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us review the case. The sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes, as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air. We will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practicable at the present stage of science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Everyone asserts the incredibility of its being smuggled ashore——"

      "Yes, but we know——"

      "You may know, Hastings. I do not. I take the view that, since it seemed incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain. It was hidden on board—also rather difficult; or—it was thrown overboard."

      "With a cork on it, do you mean?"

      "Without a cork."

      I stared.

      "But if the bonds were thrown overboard, they could not have been sold in New York."

      "I admire your logical mind, Hastings. The bonds were sold in New York; therefore they were not thrown overboard. You see where that leads us?"

      "Where we were when we started."

      "Jamais de la vie! If the package was thrown overboard and the bonds were sold in New York, the package could not have contained the bonds. Is there any evidence that the package did contain the bonds? Mr. Ridgeway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in London."

      "Yes, but then——"

      Poirot waved an impatient hand.

      "Permit me to continue. The last moment that the bonds are seen as bonds is in the office of the London and Scottish Bank on the morning of the twenty-third. They reappear in New York half-an-hour after the Olympia gets in, and, according to one man whom nobody listens to, actually before she gets in. Supposing, then, that they have never been on the Olympia at all. Is there any other way they could get to New York? Yes. The Gigantic leaves from Southampton on the same day as the Olympia starts from Liverpool, and the former holds the record for the Atlantic. Mailed by the Gigantic, the bonds would be in New York the day before the Olympia arrived. All is clear; the case begins to explain itself. The sealed package is only a dummy. It would have been an easy matter for any of the three men present to prepare a duplicate package which could be substituted for the genuine one. Très bien, the bonds are mailed to a confederate in New York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in; but someone must travel on the Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of the robbery."

      "But why?"

      "Because, if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy, suspicion flies at once to London. No; the man on board in the cabin next door does his work, pretends to force the lock in an obvious manner so as to draw immediate attention to the theft, really unlocks the trunk with a duplicate key, throws the package overboard, and waits until the last to leave the boat. Naturally, he wears glasses to conceal his eyes, and is an invalid, since he does not want to run the risk of meeting Ridgeway. He steps ashore in New York, and returns by the first boat available."

      "But who—which was he?"

      "The man who had a duplicate key, the man who ordered the lock, the man who has not been severely ill with bronchitis at his home in the country—enfin, that stodgy old man, Mr. Shaw! There are criminals in high places sometimes, my friend. Ah, here we are! Mademoiselle, I have succeeded! You permit?"

      And, beaming, Poirot kissed the astonished girl lightly on either cheek!

      THE END.

      The Secret Adversary

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