Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

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      ‘A curious story,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Excuse me, Hastings, I must take a short stroll.’

      When he returned, about an hour later, his eyes were gleaming with a peculiar excitement. He laid his stick on the table, and brushed the nap of his hat with his usual tender care before he spoke.

      ‘It is as well, mon ami, that we have no affairs of moment on hand. We can devote ourselves wholly to the present investigation.’

      ‘What investigation are you talking about?’

      ‘The remarkable cheapness of your friend, Mrs Robinson’s, new flat.’

      ‘Poirot, you are not serious!’

      ‘I am most serious. Figure to yourself, my friend, that the real rent of those flats is £350. I have just ascertained that from the landlord’s agents. And yet this particular flat is being sublet at eighty pounds! Why?’

      ‘There must be something wrong with it. Perhaps it is haunted, as Mrs Robinson suggested.’

      Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

      ‘Then again how curious it is that her friend tells her the flat is let, and, when she goes up, behold, it is not so at all!’

      ‘But surely you agree with me that the other woman must have gone to the wrong flat. That is the only possible solution.’

      ‘You may or may not be right on that point, Hastings. The fact still remains that numerous other applicants were sent to see it, and yet, in spite of its remarkable cheapness, it was still in the market when Mrs Robinson arrived.’

      ‘That shows that there must be something wrong about it.’

      ‘Mrs Robinson did not seem to notice anything amiss. Very curious, is it not? Did she impress you as being a truthful woman, Hastings?’

      ‘She was a delightful creature!’

      ‘Évidemment! since she renders you incapable of replying to my question. Describe her to me, then.’

      ‘Well, she’s tall and fair; her hair’s really a beautiful shade of auburn –’

      ‘Always you have had a penchant for auburn hair!’ murmured Poirot. ‘But continue.’

      ‘Blue eyes and a very nice complexion and – well, that’s all, I think,’ I concluded lamely.

      ‘And her husband?’

      ‘Oh, he’s quite a nice fellow – nothing startling.’

      ‘Dark or fair?’

      ‘I don’t know – betwixt and between, and just an ordinary sort of face.’

      Poirot nodded.

      ‘Yes, there are hundreds of these average men – and anyway, you bring more sympathy and appreciation to your description of women. Do you know anything about these people? Does Parker know them well?’

      ‘They are just recent acquaintances, I believe. But surely, Poirot, you don’t think for an instant –’

      Poirot raised his hand.

      ‘Tout doucement, mon ami. Have I said that I think anything? All I say is – it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light upon it; except perhaps the lady’s name, eh, Hastings?’

      ‘Her name is Stella,’ I said stiffly, ‘but I don’t see –’

      Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed to be amusing him vastly.

      ‘And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous!’

      ‘What on earth –?’

      ‘And stars give light! Voilà! Calm yourself, Hastings. Do not put on that air of injured dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and make a few inquiries.’

      I accompanied him, nothing loath. The Mansions were a handsome block of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself.

      ‘Pardon, but would you tell me if a Mr and Mrs Robinson reside here?’

      The porter was a man of few words and apparently of a sour or suspicious disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out:

      ‘No 4. Second floor.’

      ‘I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?’

      ‘Six months.’

      I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot’s malicious grin.

      ‘Impossible,’ I cried. ‘You must be making a mistake.’

      ‘Six months.’

      ‘Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and fair with reddish gold hair and –’

      ‘That’s ’er,’ said the porter. ‘Come in the Michaelmas quarter, they did. Just six months ago.’

      He appeared to lose interest in us and retreated slowly up the hall. I followed Poirot outside.

      ‘Eh bien, Hastings?’ my friend demanded slyly. ‘Are you so sure now that delightful women always speak the truth?’

      I did not reply.

      Poirot had steered his way into Brompton Road before I asked him what he was going to do and where we were going.

      ‘To the house agents, Hastings. I have a great desire to have a flat in Montagu Mansions. If I am not mistaken, several interesting things will take place there before long.’

      We were fortunate in our quest. No 8, on the fourth floor, was to be let furnished at ten guineas a week, Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside in the street again, he silenced my protests:

      ‘But I make money nowadays! Why should I not indulge a whim? By the way, Hastings, have you a revolver?’

      ‘Yes – somewhere,’ I answered, slightly thrilled. ‘Do you think –’

      ‘That you will need it? It is quite possible. The idea pleases you, I see. Always the spectacular and romantic appeals to you.’

      The following day saw us installed in our temporary home. The flat was pleasantly furnished. It occupied the same position in the building as that of the Robinsons, but was two floors higher.

      The day after our installation was a Sunday. In the afternoon, Poirot left the front door ajar, and summoned me hastily as a bang reverberated from somewhere below.

      ‘Look over the banisters. Are those your friends? Do not let them see you.’

      I craned my neck over the staircase.

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