Poirot’s Early Cases. Agatha Christie

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СКАЧАТЬ shall come to that later. One thing at a time—let us be methodical. There is no special hiding-place in the house? Waverly Court is an old place, and there are sometimes “priests’ holes”, as they call them.’

      ‘By gad, there is a priest’s hole. It opens from one of the panels in the hall.’

      ‘Near the council chamber?’

      ‘Just outside the door.’

      ‘Voilà!’

      ‘But nobody knows of its existence except my wife and myself.’

      ‘Tredwell?’

      ‘Well—he might have heard of it.’

      ‘Miss Collins?’

      ‘I have never mentioned it to her.’

      Poirot reflected for a minute.

      ‘Well, monsieur, the next thing is for me to come down to Waverly Court. If I arrive this afternoon, will it suit you?’

      ‘Oh, as soon as possible, please, Monsieur Poirot!’ cried Mrs Waverly. ‘Read this once more.’

      She thrust into his hands the last missive from the enemy which had reached the Waverlys that morning and which had sent her post-haste to Poirot. It gave clever and explicit directions for the paying over of the money, and ended with a threat that the boy’s life would pay for any treachery. It was clear that a love of money warred with the essential mother love of Mrs Waverly, and that the latter was at last gaining the day.

      Poirot detained Mrs Waverly for a minute behind her husband.

      ‘Madame, the truth, if you please. Do you share your husband’s faith in the butler, Tredwell?’

      ‘I have nothing against him, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see how he can have been concerned in this, but—well, I have never liked him—never!’

      ‘One other thing, madame, can you give me the address of the child’s nurse?’

      ‘149 Netherall Road, Hammersmith. You don’t imagine—’

      ‘Never do I imagine. Only—I employ the little grey cells. And sometimes, just sometimes, I have a little idea.’

      Poirot came back to me as the door closed.

      ‘So madame has never liked the butler. It is interesting, that, eh, Hastings?’

      I refused to be drawn. Poirot has deceived me so often that I now go warily. There is always a catch somewhere.

      After completing an elaborate outdoor toilet, we set off for Netherall Road. We were fortunate enough to find Miss Jessie Withers at home. She was a pleasant-faced woman of thirty-five, capable and superior. I could not believe that she could be mixed up in the affair. She was bitterly resentful of the way she had been dismissed, but admitted that she had been in the wrong. She was engaged to be married to a painter and decorator who happened to be in the neighbourhood, and she had run out to meet him. The thing seemed natural enough. I could not quite understand Poirot. All his questions seemed to me quite irrelevant. They were concerned mainly with the daily routine of her life at Waverly Court. I was frankly bored and glad when Poirot took his departure.

      ‘Kidnapping is an easy job, mon ami,’ he observed, as he hailed a taxi in the Hammersmith Road and ordered it to drive to Waterloo. ‘That child could have been abducted with the greatest ease any day for the last three years.’

      ‘I don’t see that that advances us much,’ I remarked coldly.

      ‘Au contraire, it advances us enormously, but enormously! If you must wear a tie pin, Hastings, at least let it be in the exact centre of your tie. At present it is at least a sixteenth of an inch too much to the right.’

      Waverly Court was a fine old place and had recently been restored with taste and care. Mr Waverly showed us the council chamber, the terrace, and all the various spots connected with the case. Finally, at Poirot’s request, he pressed a spring in the wall, a panel slid aside, and a short passage led us into the priest’s hole.

      ‘You see,’ said Waverly. ‘There is nothing here.’

      The tiny room was bare enough, there was not even the mark of a footstep on the floor. I joined Poirot where he was bending attentively over a mark in the corner.

      ‘What do you make of this, my friend?’

      There were four imprints close together.

      ‘A dog,’ I cried.

      ‘A very small dog, Hastings.’

      ‘A Pom.’

      ‘Smaller than a Pom.’

      ‘A griffon?’ I suggested doubtfully.

      ‘Smaller even than a griffon. A species unknown to the Kennel Club.’

      I looked at him. His face was alight with excitement and satisfaction.

      ‘I was right,’ he murmured. ‘I knew I was right. Come, Hastings.’

      As we stepped out into the hall and the panel closed behind us, a young lady came out of a door farther down the passage. Mr Waverly presented her to us.

      ‘Miss Collins.’

      Miss Collins was about thirty years of age, brisk and alert in manner. She had fair, rather dull hair, and wore pince-nez.

      At Poirot’s request, we passed into a small morning-room, and he questioned her closely as to the servants and particularly as to Tredwell. She admitted that she did not like the butler.

      ‘He gives himself airs,’ she explained.

      They then went into the question of the food eaten by Mrs Waverly on the night of the 28th. Miss Collins declared that she had partaken of the same dishes upstairs in her sitting-room and had felt no ill effects. As she was departing I nudged Poirot.

      ‘The dog,’ I whispered.

      ‘Ah, yes, the dog!’ He smiled broadly. ‘Is there a dog kept here by any chance, mademoiselle?’

      ‘There are two retrievers in the kennels outside.’

      ‘No, I mean a small dog, a toy dog.’

      ‘No—nothing of the kind.’

      Poirot permitted her to depart. Then, pressing the bell, he remarked to me, ‘She lies, that Mademoiselle Collins. Possibly I should, also, in her place. Now for the butler.’

      Tredwell was a dignified individual. He told his story with perfect aplomb, and it was essentially the same as that of Mr Waverly. He admitted that he knew the secret of the priest’s hole.

      When he finally withdrew, pontifical to the last, I met Poirot’s quizzical eyes.

      ‘What do you make of it all, Hastings?’

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