Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ standing back from the road. A returning wayfarer, slightly drunk, was lurching along the pavement and almost collided with Poirot, who said something sharply to him which I did not catch. All three of us went up the steps of the house. Poirot rang the bell and motioned us to stand a little aside. There was no answer and he rang again and then seized the knocker which he plied for some minutes vigorously.

      A light appeared suddenly above the fanlight, and the door opened cautiously a little way.

      ‘What the devil do you want?’ a man’s voice demanded harshly.

      ‘I want the doctor. My wife is taken ill.’

      ‘There’s no doctor here.’

      The man prepared to shut the door, but Poirot thrust his foot in adroitly. He became suddenly a perfect caricature of an infuriated Frenchman.

      ‘What you say, there is no doctor? I will have the law of you. You must come! I will stay here and ring and knock all night.’

      ‘My dear sir–’ The door was opened again, the man, clad in a dressing-gown and slippers, stepped forward to pacify Poirot with an uneasy glance round.

      ‘I will call the police.’

      Poirot prepared to descend the steps.

      ‘No, don’t do that for Heaven’s sake!’ The man dashed after him.

      With a neat push Poirot sent him staggering down the steps. In another minute all three of us were inside the door and it was pushed to and bolted.

      ‘Quick – in here.’ Poirot led the way into the nearest room, switching on the light as he did so. ‘And you – behind the curtain.’

      ‘Si, Signor,’ said the Italian and slid rapidly behind the full folds of rose-coloured velvet which draped the embrasure of the window.

      Not a minute too soon. Just as he disappeared from view a woman rushed into the room. She was tall with reddish hair and held a scarlet kimono round her slender form.

      ‘Where is my husband?’ she cried, with a quick frightened glance. ‘Who are you?’

      Poirot stepped forward with a bow.

      ‘It is to be hoped your husband will not suffer from a chill. I observed that he had slippers on his feet, and that his dressing-gown was a warm one.’

      ‘Who are you? What are you doing in my house?’

      ‘It is true that none of us have the pleasure of your acquaintance, madame. It is especially to be regretted as one of our number has come specially from New York in order to meet you.’

      The curtains parted and the Italian stepped out. To my horror I observed that he was brandishing my revolver, which Poirot must doubtless have put down through inadvertence in the cab.

      The woman gave a piercing scream and turned to fly, but Poirot was standing in front of the closed door.

      ‘Let me by,’ she shrieked. ‘He will murder me.’

      ‘Who was it dat croaked Luigi Valdarno?’ asked the Italian hoarsely, brandishing the weapon, and sweeping each one of us with it. We dared not move.

      ‘My God, Poirot, this is awful. What shall we do?’ I cried.

      ‘You will oblige me by refraining from talking so much, Hastings. I can assure you that our friend will not shoot until I give the word.’

      ‘Youse sure o’ dat, eh?’ said the Italian, leering unpleasantly.

      It was more than I was, but the woman turned to Poirot like a flash.

      ‘What is it you want?’

      Poirot bowed.

      ‘I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hardt’s intelligence by telling her.’

      With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat which served as a cover for the telephone.

      ‘They are stitched in the lining of that.’

      ‘Clever,’ murmured Poirot appreciatively. He stood aside from the door. ‘Good evening, madame. I will detain your friend from New York whilst you make your getaway.’

      ‘Whatta fool!’ roared the big Italian, and raising the revolver he fired point-blank at the woman’s retreating figure just as I flung myself upon him.

      But the weapon merely clicked harmlessly and Poirot’s voice rose in mild reproof.

      ‘Never will you trust your old friend, Hastings. I do not care for my friends to carry loaded pistols about with them and never would I permit a mere acquaintance to do so. No, no, mon ami.’ This to the Italian who was swearing hoarsely. Poirot continued to address him in a tone of mild reproof: ‘See now, what I have done for you. I have saved you from being hanged. And do not think that our beautiful lady will escape. No, no, the house is watched, back and front. Straight into the arms of the police they will go. Is not that a beautiful and consoling thought? Yes, you may leave the room now. But be careful – be very careful. I – Ah, he is gone! And my friend Hastings looks at me with eyes of reproach. But it’s all so simple! It was clear, from the first, that out of several hundred, probably, applicants for No 4 Montagu Mansions, only the Robinsons were considered suitable. Why? What was there that singled them out from the rest – at practically a glance. Their appearance? Possibly, but it was not so unusual. Their name, then!’

      ‘But there’s nothing unusual about the name of Robinson,’ I cried. ‘It’s quite a common name.’

      ‘Ah! Sapristi, but exactly! That was the point. Elsa Hardt and her husband, or brother or whatever he really is, come from New York, and take a flat in the name of Mr and Mrs Robinson. Suddenly they learn that one of these secret societies, the Mafia, or the Camorra, to which doubtless Luigi Valdarno belonged, is on their track. What do they do? They hit on a scheme of transparent simplicity. Evidently they knew that their pursuers were not personally acquainted with either of them. What, then, can be simpler? They offer the flat at an absurdly low rental. Of the thousands of young couples in London looking for flats, there cannot fail to be several Robinsons. It is only a matter of waiting. If you will look at the name of Robinson in the telephone directory, you will realize that a fair-haired Mrs Robinson was pretty sure to come along sooner or later. Then what will happen? The avenger arrives. He knows the name, he knows the address. He strikes! All is over, vengeance is satisfied, and Miss Elsa Hardt has escaped by the skin of her teeth once more. By the way, Hastings, you must present me to the real Mrs Robinson – that delightful and truthful creature! What will they think when they find their flat has been broken into! We must hurry back. Ah, that sounds like Japp and his friends arriving.’

      A mighty tattoo sounded on the knocker.

      ‘How do you know this address?’ I asked as I followed Poirot out into the hall. ‘Oh, of course, you had the first Mrs Robinson followed when she left the other flat.’

      ‘A la bonne heure, Hastings. You use your grey cells at last. Now for a little surprise for Japp.’

      Softly unbolting the door, he stuck the cat’s head round the edge and ejaculated a piercing ‘Miaow’.

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