Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

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      About half an hour later, a young woman emerged in brilliant and varied clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction, Poirot tiptoed back into the flat.

      ‘C’est ça. After the master and mistress, the maid. The flat should now be empty.’

      ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked uneasily.

      Poirot had trotted briskly into the scullery and was hauling at the rope of the coal-lift.

      ‘We are about to descend after the method of the dustbins,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘No one will observe us. The Sunday concert, the Sunday “afternoon out”, and finally the Sunday nap after the Sunday dinner of England – le rosbif – all these will distract attention from the doings of Hercule Poirot. Come, my friend.’

      He stepped into the rough wooden contrivance and I followed him gingerly.

      ‘Are we going to break into the flat?’ I asked dubiously.

      Poirot’s answer was not too reassuring:

      ‘Not precisely today,’ he replied.

      Pulling on the rope, we descended slowly till we reached the second floor. Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction as he perceived that the wooden door into the scullery was open.

      ‘You observe? Never do they bolt these doors in the daytime. And yet anyone could mount or descend as we have done. At night, yes – though not always then – and it is against that that we are going to make provision.’

      He had drawn some tools from his pocket as he spoke, and at once set deftly to work, his object being to arrange the bolt so that it could be pulled back from the lift. The operation only occupied about three minutes. Then Poirot returned the tools to his pocket, and we reascended once more to our own domain.

      On Monday Poirot was out all day, but when he returned in the evening he flung himself into his chair with a sigh of satisfaction.

      ‘Hastings, shall I recount to you a little history? A story after your own heart and which will remind you of your favourite cinema?’

      ‘Go ahead,’ I laughed. ‘I presume that it is a true story, not one of your efforts of fancy.’

      ‘It is true enough. Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard will vouch for its accuracy, since it was through his kind offices that it came to my ears. Listen, Hastings. A little over six months ago some important Naval plans were stolen from an American Government department. They showed the position of some of the most important Harbour defences, and would be worth a considerable sum to any foreign Government – that of Japan, for example. Suspicion fell upon a young man named Luigi Valdarno, an Italian by birth, who was employed in a minor capacity in the Department and who was missing at the same time as the papers. Whether Luigi Valdarno was the thief or not, he was found two days later on the East Side in New York, shot dead. The papers were not on him. Now for some time past Luigi Valdarno had been going about with a Miss Elsa Hardt, a young concert singer who had recently appeared and who lived with a brother in an apartment in Washington. Nothing was known of the antecedents of Miss Elsa Hardt, and she disappeared suddenly about the time of Valdarno’s death. There are reasons for believing that she was in reality an accomplished international spy who has done much nefarious work under various aliases. The American Secret Service, while doing their best to trace her, also kept an eye upon certain insignificant Japanese gentlemen living in Washington. They felt pretty certain that, when Elsa Hardt had covered her tracks sufficiently, she would approach the gentlemen in question. One of them left suddenly for England a fortnight ago. On the face of it, therefore, it would seem that Elsa Hardt is in England.’ Poirot paused, and then added softly: ‘The official description of Elsa Hardt is: Height 5 ft 7, eyes blue, hair auburn, fair complexion, nose straight, no special distinguishing marks.’

      ‘Mrs Robinson!’ I gasped.

      ‘Well, there is a chance of it, anyhow,’ amended Poirot. ‘Also I learn that a swarthy man, a foreigner of some kind, was inquiring about the occupants of No 4 only this morning. Therefore, mon ami, I fear that you must forswear your beauty sleep tonight, and join me in my all-night vigil in that flat below – armed with that excellent revolver of yours, bien entendu!’

      ‘Rather,’ I cried with enthusiasm. ‘When shall we start?’

      ‘The hour of midnight is both solemn and suitable, I fancy. Nothing is likely to occur before then.’

      At twelve o’clock precisely, we crept cautiously into the coal-lift and lowered ourselves to the second floor. Under Poirot’s manipulation, the wooden door quickly swung inwards, and we climbed into the flat. From the scullery we passed into the kitchen where we established ourselves comfortably in two chairs with the door into the hall ajar.

      ‘Now we have but to wait,’ said Poirot contentedly, closing his eyes.

      To me, the waiting appeared endless. I was terrified of going to sleep. Just when it seemed to me that I had been there about eight hours – and had, as I found out afterwards, in reality been exactly one hour and twenty minutes – a faint scratching sound came to my ears. Poirot’s hand touched mine. I rose, and together we moved carefully in the direction of the hall. The noise came from there. Poirot placed his lips to my ear.

      ‘Outside the front door. They are cutting out the lock. When I give the word, not before, fall upon him from behind and hold him fast. Be careful, he will have a knife.’

      Presently there was a rending sound, and a little circle of light appeared through the door. It was extinguished immediately and then the door was slowly opened. Poirot and I flattened ourselves against the wall. I heard a man’s breathing as he passed us. Then he flashed on his torch, and as he did so, Poirot hissed in my ear:

       ‘Allez.’

      We sprang together, Poirot with a quick movement enveloped the intruder’s head with a light woollen scarf whilst I pinioned his arms. The whole affair was quick and noiseless. I twisted a dagger from his hand, and as Poirot brought down the scarf from his eyes, whilst keeping it wound tightly round his mouth, I jerked up my revolver where he could see it and understand that resistance was useless. As he ceased to struggle Poirot put his mouth close to his ear and began to whisper rapidly. After a minute the man nodded. Then enjoining silence with a movement of the hand, Poirot led the way out of the flat and down the stairs. Our captive followed, and I brought up the rear with the revolver. When we were out in the street, Poirot turned to me.

      ‘There is a taxi waiting just round the corner. Give me the revolver. We shall not need it now.’

      ‘But if this fellow tries to escape?’

      Poirot smiled.

      ‘He will not.’

      I returned in a minute with the waiting taxi. The scarf had been unwound from the stranger’s face, and I gave a start of surprise.

      ‘He’s not a Jap,’ I ejaculated in a whisper to Poirot.

      ‘Observation was always your strong point, Hastings! Nothing escapes you. No, the man is not a Jap. He is an Italian.’

      We got into the taxi, and Poirot gave the driver an address in St John’s Wood. I was by now completely fogged. I did not like to ask Poirot where we were going in front of СКАЧАТЬ