Poirot Investigates - Agatha Christie - 4

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Disc 4 The Case of the Missing Will The problem presented to us by Miss Violet Marsh made rather a pleasant change from our usual routine work. Poirot had received a brisk and business-like note from the lady asking for an appointment, and he had replied asking her to call upon him at eleven o'clock the following day. She arrived punctually, a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but neatly dressed with an assured and business-like manner, clearly a young woman who meant to get on in the world. I am not a great admirer of the so-called new woman myself, and in spite of her good looks, I was not particularly pre-possessed in her favour. My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, Monsieur Poirot. She began after she had accepted a chair. I had better begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story. If you please, Mme. Roselle. I am an orphan. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small yeoman farmer in Devonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the elder brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia, where he did very well indeed, and by means of successful speculation in land became a very rich man. The younger brother, Roger, my father, had no leanings toward the agricultural life. He managed to educate himself a little and obtained a post as a clerk with a small firm. He married slightly above him. My mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was six years old. When I was fourteen, my mother followed him to the grave. My only living relation then was my uncle Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place, Crabtree Manor, in his native county. He was exceedingly kind to his brother's orphan child, took me to live with him, and treated me in every way as though I was his own daughter. Crabtree Manor, in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse. Farming was in my uncle's blood, and he was intensely interested in various modern farming experiments. Although kindness itself to me, he had certain peculiar and deeply rooted ideas as to the upbringing of women. Himself a man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable shrewdness, he placed little value on what he called book knowledge. He was especially opposed to the education of women. In his opinion, girls should learn practical housework and dairy work, be useful about the home, and have as little to do with book learning as possible. He proposed to bring me up on these lines to my bitter disappointment and annoyance. I rebelled, frankly. I know that I possessed a good brain and had absolutely no talent for domestic duties. My uncle and I had many bitter arguments on the subject, for though much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in getting my own way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Gertin. I had a little money of my own, left me by my mother, and I was quite determined to make the best use of the gifts God had given me. I had one long final argument with my uncle. He put the facts plainly before me. He had no other relations, and he had intended me to be his sole heiress. As I have told you, he was a very rich man. If I persisted in these newfangled notions of mine, however, I need look for nothing from him. I remained polite, but firm. I should always be deeply attached to him, I told him, but I must lead my own life, and we parted on that note. You fancy your brain, my girl, were his last words. I have no book-learning, but for all that I'll pit mine against yours any day. We'll see what we shall see. Well, that was nine years ago. I have stayed with him for a weekend occasionally, and our relations were perfectly amicable, though his views remained unaltered. He never referred to my having matriculated, nor to my bachelor of science. For the last three years his health had been failing, and a month ago he died. I am now coming to the point of my visit. My uncle left a most extraordinary will. By its terms, Crabtree Manor and its contents are to be at my disposal for a year from his death, during which time my clever niece may prove her wits, the actual words run. At the end of that period, my wits having proved better than hers, the house and all my uncle's large fortune passed to various charitable institutions. Ah, that is a little hard on you, ma'am Moussel, seeing that you are, Mr. Mouss' only blood relation. Well, I do not look on it that way. Uncle Andrew warned me fairly, and I chose my own path. Since I would not fall in with his wishes, he was a perfect liberty to leave his money to whom he pleased. Was the will drawn up by a lawyer? No, it was written on a printed will form and witnessed by the man and his wife, who live in the house, and do for my uncle. There might be a possibility of upsetting such a will. Oh, I would not even attempt to do such a thing. Do you regard it then as a spotting challenge on the part of your uncle? That is exactly how I look upon it. It bears that interpretation suddenly, said Poirot thoughtfully. Somewhere in this rambling old manor house, your uncle has concealed either a sum of money in notes, or possibly a second will, and has given you one year in which to exercise your ingenuity to find it. Exactly, Mouss' Poirot, and I am paying you the compliment of assuming that your ingenuity will be greater than mine. Ah, but it is very charming of you. My grisels are at your disposal. You have made no such yourself? Well, only a cursory one, but I have too much respect for my uncle's undoubted abilities to fancy that the task will be an easy one. Have you the will or copy of it with you? Miss Marsh handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself. Hmm, made three years ago, dated March the 25th, and the time is given also, huh? 11 a.m. Ah, that is very suggestive. It narrows the field of such. Assuredly, it is another will we have to seek for. A will made even half an hour later would upset this. Eh bien, ma moussel, it is a problem charming and ingenious that you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world in serving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his grisels cannot have been of the quality of accurate Poirot's. Really, Poirot's vanity is blatant. Unfortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings and I will go down to Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and wife who attended on your uncle are still there, I presume. Oh yes, their name is Baker. The following morning, Soros started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Baker, having received a telegram from Miss March, were expecting us. They were a pleasant couple, the man gnarled and pink cheeked like a shriveled pippin, and his wife, a woman of vast proportions and true Devonshire calm. Tired with our journey and the eight-mile drive from the station, we had retired at once to bed after supper of roast chicken, apple pie and Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of an excellent breakfast and were sitting in a small paneled room, which had been the late Mr. Marsh's study and living room. A roll-top desk, stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood against the wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner's constant resting place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wall, and the deep low-window seats were covered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern. Eh bien, mon ami, c'est Poirot lighting one of his tiny cigarettes. We must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of opinion that any clue will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care, and naturally I do not expect to find the will among them, but it is likely that some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding place. But first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you. I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up and down, looking about him approvingly. A man of method, this Mr. Marsh, see how neatly the packets of papers are docketed, and then the key to each drawer has its ivory level. So has the key of the china cabinet on the wall, and see with what precision the china within is arranged. Ah, it rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye. He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which a dirty envelope was fixed. Poirot frowned at it and withdrew it from the lock. On it was scrawled the words, Key of Roll Top Desk. In a craved handwriting, quite unlike the neat superscriptions on the other keys. An alien note, said Poirot frowning, I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh? And she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order. If you work in university maintenance, Granger considers you an MVP, because your playbook ensures your arena is always ready for tip-off. And Granger is your trusted partner, offering the products you need, all in one place, from HVAC and plumbing supplies to lighting and more, and all delivered with plenty of time left on the clock, so your team always gets the win. Call 1-800-GRANGER, visit Granger.com or just stop by, Granger, for the ones who get it done. When you manage procurement for multiple facilities, every order matters. But when it's for a hospital system, they matter even more. Granger gets it, and knows there's no time for managing multiple suppliers and no room for shipping delays. That's why Granger offers millions of products in fast, dependable delivery, so you can keep your facility stocked, safe, and running smoothly. Call 1-800-GRANGER, click Granger.com or just stop by. Granger, for the ones who get it done. Baker came in answer to the bell. Ah, will you fetch Madame your wife and answer a few questions? Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs. Baker wiping her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face. In a few clear words, Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The bakers were immediately sympathetic. Oh, us don't want to see Miss Violet done out of what's hers, declared the woman. Cool art would be for hospitals to get it all. Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker remembered perfectly witnessing the will. Baker had previously been sent into the neighbouring town to get two printed will-forms. Do, said Poirot sharply, oh yes sir, for safety like I suppose, in case he should spoil one, and sure enough, so he did do. Miss had signed one. And what time of day was that? Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker. Ah, why, to be sure, I'd just put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven. Don't you remember? It all boiled over on the stove when it's got back to the kitchen. And afterwards, ah, to be about an hour later, I said to go in again. I've made a mistake, says old master. Had to tear the whole thing up. Trouble you to sign again. And us dead. And afterwards, master, give us a tidy sum of money each. Now I've left you nothing in my will, says he, but each year I live, you'll have this to be a nest egg when I'm gone. And sure enough, so he did. Poirot reflected, after you had signed the second time, what did Mr. Mosh do, do you know? Well, went out to the village to pay tradesmen's books. That did not sound very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk. Is that your master's writing? Now I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied. Yes, sir, it is. He's lying, I thought. But why? As your master let the house, have there been any strangers in it during the last three years? No, sir. No visitors? Only Miss Violet? No strangers of any kind been inside this room? No, sir. Oh, now you forget the workman, Jim! His wife reminded him. Workman? Poirot wheeled round on her. What workman? The woman explained that about two years and a half ago, workman had been in the house to do certain repairs. She was quite vague as to what the repairs were. Her view seemed to be that the whole thing was a fad of her masters and quite unnecessary. Part of the time the workman had been in a study, but what they had done there she couldn't say, as her master had not let either of them into the room while the work was in progress. Unfortunately they could not remember the name of the firm employed beyond the fact that it was a Plymouth one. Ah, we progress Hastings, said Poirot, rubbing his hands as the bakers left the room. Clearly he made a second wheel and then had workmen from Plymouth in to make a suitable hiding place. Instead of wasting time taking up the floor and tapping the walls, we will go to Plymouth. With a little trouble we were able to get the information we wanted. After one or two essays we found the firm employed by Mr. Marsh. Their employees had all been with them many years and it was easy to find the two men who had worked under Mr. Marsh's orders. They remembered the job perfectly. Among various other minor jobs they had taken up one of the bricks of the old fashioned fireplace, made a cavity beneath and so cut the brick that it was impossible to see the join. By pressing on the second brick from the end the whole thing was raised. It had been quite a complicated piece of work and the old gentleman had been very fussy about it. Our informant was a man called Coggan, a big, gaunt man with a grizzled moustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow. We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits and locking the study door proceeded to put our newly acquired knowledge into effect. It was impossible to see any sign on the bricks, but when we pressed in the manner indicated a deep cavity was at once disclosed. Eagley, Poirot, plunged in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from complacent elation to consternation. All he held was a charred fragment of stiff paper and but for it the cavity was empty. C'est Cray! cried Poirot angrily. Someone has been before us! We examined the scrap of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment of what we sought. A portion of Baker's signature remained, but no indication of what the terms of the will had been. Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been comical if we had not been so overcome. I understand it not, he growled. Who destroyed this and what was their object? The Bakers, I suggested. Poirot! Neither will makes any provision for them and they are more likely to be kept on with moustache if the place became the property of a hospital. How could it be to anyone's advantage to destroy the will? The hospital is benefit, yes, but one cannot suspect institutions. Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself, I suggested. Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care. That may be, he admitted, one of your more sensible observations, his things. We can do no more here. We have done all that mortal man can do. We have successfully pitted our wits against the late Andrew Marshes, but unfortunately his niece is no better off for our success. By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a train to London, though not the principal express. Poirot was sad and dissatisfied. For my part, I was tired and dozed in a corner. Suddenly, as we were just moving out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a piercing squeal. Vite, Hastings! Awake and jump, but jump, I say! Before I knew where I was, we were standing on the platform bare-headed and minus-alvelysis, while the train disappeared into the night. I was furious, but Poirot paid no attention. Imbasil that I have been, he cried, triple Imbasil, not again will I want my little grisels. Well, that's a good job at any rate, I said grumpily, but what is this all about? As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely no attention to me. The tradesmen's books. I have left them entirely out of account. Yes, but where, where? Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must return at once. Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter and air Poirot hard a car. We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in the small hours of the morning. I pass over the bewilderment of the bakers when we had at last aroused them. Paying no attention to anybody, Poirot strode at once to the study. I have been not a triple Imbasil, but thirty-six times one, my friend, he dained to remark, now behold. Going straight to the desk, he drew out the key and detached the envelope from it. I stared at him stupidly. How could he possibly hope to find a big will-form in that tiny envelope? With great care, he cut open the envelope, laying it out flat. Then he lighted the fire and held the plane inside surface of the envelope to the flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear. Look, mon ami! cried Poirot in triumph. I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating briefly that he left everything to his niece, Violet Marsh. It was dated March the 25th, twelve-thirty p.m. and witnessed by Albert Pike, confectioner, and Jesse Pike, married woman. But is it legal, I gasped. Well, as far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the testata is clear, and the beneficiary is his only living relation. But the cleverness of him, he foresaw every step that a suture would take that I, miserable imbecile, took. He gets two will-forms, makes the servant sign twice, then selles out with his will written on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain pen containing his little ink mixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his own signature, then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles to himself. If his niece sees through his little rules, she will have justified her choice of life and elaborate education and be thoroughly welcome to his money. But she didn't see through it, did she? I said slowly. It seems rather unfair. The old man really won. Ah, but no his things. It is your wits that go astray. Miss Marsh proved the astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher education for women by at once putting the matter in my hands. Always employ the expert. No, she has amply proved her right to the money. This is the story of the one. As a procurement manager for a hospital system, she keeps every facility in her network stocked and ready. That's why she counts on Granger to be her single source for thousands of products from disinfectants to lighting, air filters and more. And with fast, dependable delivery, Granger helps her keep every facility stocked, safe and running smoothly. Call 1-800-GRANGER, click Granger.com or just stop by. Granger, for the ones who get it done. Well, I wonder, I very much wonder what old Andrew Marsh would have thought. The mystery of Hunter's Lodge Uh, at all. murmured Poirot. It is possible that I shall not die this time. Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows, his head muffled in a woolen shawl and was slowly sipping a particularly noxious tizane, which I had prepared according to his directions. His eye rested with pleasure upon a neatly graduated row of medicine bottles which adorned the mantelpiece. Oh, yes, yes. My little friend continued. Once more, shall I be myself again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evil doers. Figure to yourself, my namey, that I have a little paragraph to myself in society gossip. Oh, but yes, here it is. Go it, criminals, all out. Hercule Poirot! And believe me girls, here's some Hercule leaves. Our own pet society detective can't get a grip on you. Cause why? Cause he's got like great pimp self? I laughed. Good for you, Poirot. You're becoming quite a public character. Unfortunately, you haven't missed anything of particular interest during this time. That is true. A few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret. Our landlady stuck her head in at the door. There's a gentleman downstairs, says he must see Monsieur Poirot or you, Captain. And seeing as he was in a great to-do, and with all that quiet the gentleman, I brought up his card. She handed me a bit of pasteboard. Mr. Roger Havering, I read. Poirot motioned with his head towards the bookcase and I obediently pulled forth who's who. Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly. Second son of fifth Baron Wiser married 1913 Zoe, the fourth daughter of William Crabb. Hmm, I said. I rather fancy that's the girl who used to act at the frivolity. And she called herself Zoe Carisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town, and then just before the war. Would he interest you Hastings to go down and hear what our visitors, particular little trouble is, make him all my excuses. Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance. His face, however, was haggard and he was evidently laboring under great agitation. Captain Hastings, you are Mr. Poirot's partner, I understand. It's imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today. Well, I'm afraid that's impossible, I replied. Poirot is ill in bed, influenza. His face fell. Oh, dear me, that's a great blow to me. Well, the matter on which you want to consult him is serious? Oh, my God, yes. Uncle, the best friend I have in the world was foully murdered last night. What, here in London? No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round and beg Mr. Poirot to undertake the case. Well, if you will excuse me a minute, I said, struck by a sudden idea. I rushed upstairs and in a few brief words acquainted Poirot with the situation. He took any further words out of my mouth. I see, I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not? You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should report me fully every day and follow implicitly any instructions I may wire you. To this I willingly agreed. An hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London. To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter's Lodge, where we're going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a small shooting box in the heart of the Derbyshire Moors. Our real home is near Newmarket and we usually rent a flat in town for the season. Hunter's Lodge is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable of doing all we need when we run down for an occasional weekend. Of course, during the shooting season we take down some of our own servants from Newmarket. My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace, as you may know, my mother was a miss-pace of New York, has for the last three years made his home with us. He never got on well with my father or my elder brother and I suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his affection towards me. Of course, I am a poor man and my uncle was a rich one, in other words. Well, he paid the piper. But though exacting in many ways, he wasn't really hard to get on with and we all three lived very harmoniously together. Two days ago my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gate-ears of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a day or two. I drove telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning I received this telegram. He handed it over to me. Come at once. Uncle Harrington murdered last night. Bring good detective if you can, but do come. Zoe. Then as yet you know no details. No, I suppose it'll be in the evening papers. Without doubt the police are in charge. It was about three o'clock when we arrived at the little station of Elmer's Dale. From there a five mile drive brought us to a small grey stone building in the midst of the rugged moors. A lonely place. I observed with a shiver, havery nodded. I shall try to get rid of it. I could never live here again. We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us. Jap! I ejaculated. The Scotland Yard Inspector grinned at me in a friendly fashion before addressing my companion. A Mr. Havering, I think? I've been sent down from London to take charge of this case and I'd like a word with you if I may, sir. My wife, and I've seen your good-lady, sir, and the housekeeper. I won't keep you a moment, but I'm anxious to get back to the village now that I've seen all there is to see here. Well, I know nothing as yet as to what exactly, said Jap, soothingly, but there are just one or two little points I'd like your opinion about, all the same. Captain Hastings here, he knows me, and he'll go on up to the house and tell them you're coming. Now, what have you done with the little man, by the way, Captain Hastings? He's ill in bed with influenza. Oh, is he now? I'm sorry to hear that. Rather the case of the cart without the horse. You being here without him, isn't it? And on his rather ill-timed jest, I went on to the house. I rang the bell as Jap had closed the door behind him. After some moments it was opened to me by a middle-aged woman in black. Mr. Havering will be here in a moment, I explained. He's been detained by the Inspector. I've come down with him from London to look into the case. Now, perhaps you can tell me briefly what occurred last night. Come inside, sir. She closed the door behind me, and we stood in the dimly-lighted hall. It was after dinner last night, sir, that the man came. He asked to see Mr. Pace, sir, and seeing that he spoke the same way, I thought it was an American gentleman friend of Mr. Pace's, and I showed him into the gun-room, and then went to tell Mr. Pace. He wouldn't give any name, which, of course, was a bit odd. Now I come to think of it. I told Mr. Pace, and he seemed puzzled. Like, but he said to the mistress, excuse me, Zoe, while I see what this fellow wants. He went off to the gun-room, and I went back to the kitchen, but after a while I heard loud voices as if they were quarrelling, and I came out into the hall. At the same time the mistress—she comes out, too—just then there was a shot, and then a dreadful silence. We both ran to the gun-room door, but it was locked, and we had to go round to the window. It was open, and there inside was Mr. Pace. All shot and bleeding. And what became of the man? Well, he must have got away through the window, sir, before we got to it. And then? What Mrs. Havering sent me to fetch the police? And five miles to walk it was. They came back with me, and the constable, what he stayed all night, and this morning the police gentleman from London arrived. And what was this man like who called to see Mr. Pace? The housekeeper reflected. Well, he had a black beard, sir, and was about middle-aged, and had on a light overcoat. Beyond the fact that he spoke like an American, I didn't notice much about him. I see. Now, I wonder if I can see Mrs. Havering. Oh, she's upstairs, sir. Shall I tell her? Or if you please, tell her that Mr. Havering is outside with Inspector Japp, and that the gentleman he has brought back with him from London is anxious to speak to her as soon as possible. Very good, sir. I was in a fever of impatience to get all the facts. Japp had got two or three hours' start on me, and his anxiety to be gone made me keen to be close at his heels. Mrs. Havering did not keep me waiting long. In a few minutes I heard a light step descending the stairs, and looked up to see a very handsome young woman coming towards me. She wore a flame-colored jumper that set off the slender boyishness of her figure. On her dark head was a little hat of flame-colored leather. Even the present tragedy could not dim the vitality of her personality. I introduced myself, and she nodded in quick comprehension. Oh, of course I've often heard of you and your colleague, Mr. Poirot. You've done some wonderful things together, haven't you? It was very clever of my husband to get you so promptly. Now, will you ask me questions? I mean, that's the easiest way, isn't it, of getting to know all you want to about this dreadful affair? Well, thank you, Mrs. Havering. Now, what time was it that this man arrived? It must have been just before nine o'clock. We'd finished dinner, and we were sitting over our coffee and cigarettes. Now, your husband had already left for London. Yes, he went up by the six-fifteen. Did he go by car to the station, or did he walk? Our own car isn't down here. One came out from the garage in Elmer's Dale to fetch him in time for the train. Was Mr. Pace quite his usual self? Oh, absolutely. Most normal in every way. Now, can you describe this visitor at all? Oh, no, I'm afraid not. I didn't see him. Mrs. Middleton showed him straight into the gun-room and then came to tell my uncle. And what did your uncle say? He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran out into the hall and almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the shot. The gun-room door was locked on the inside, and we had to go right round the house to the window. Of course, that took some time, and the murderer had been able to get well away. My poor uncle—her voice faltered—had been shot through the head. I saw at once that he was dead. I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police. I was careful to touch nothing in the room, but to leave it exactly as I found it. I nodded approval. Now, as to the weapon? Well, I can make a guess at it, Captain Hastings. A pair of revolvers of my husbands were mounted upon the wall. One of them is missing. I pointed this out to the police, and they took the other one away with them. When they have extracted the bullet, I suppose they will know for certain. May I go to the gun-room? Oh, certainly! The police have finished with it, but the body has been removed. She accompanied me to the scene of the crime. At that moment, Havering entered the hall, and with a quick apology, his wife ran to him. I was left to undertake my investigations alone. Now, I may as well confess at once that they were rather disappointing. Indetective novels, clues abound, but here I could find nothing that struck me as out of the ordinary except a large bloodstain on the carpet where I judged the dead man had fallen. I examined everything with painstaking care and took a couple of pictures of the room with my little camera which I had brought with me. I also examined the ground outside the window, but it appeared to have been so heavily trampled underfoot that I judged it was useless to waste time over it. I had seen all that Hunter's Lodge had to show me. I must go back to Elmer's Dale and get into touch with Japp. Accordingly, I took leave of the Haverings and was driven off in the car that had brought us from the station. I found Japp at the Matlog Arms, and he took me forthwith to see the body. Harrington Pace was a small, spare, clean-shaven man, typically American in appearance. He had been shot through the back of the head, and the revolver had been discharged at close quarters. Hmm, turned away for a moment, remarked Japp, and the other fellow snatched up a revolver and shot him. The one Mrs. Havering handed over to us was fully loaded, and I suppose the other one was also. Curious what darn full things people do? Fancy keeping two loaded revolvers hanging up on your wall. What do you think of the case? I asked as we left the gruesome chamber behind us. Well, I've got my eye on Havering to begin with. Oh, yes. Noting my exclamation of astonishment, Havering has one or two shady incidents in his past. When he was a boy at Oxford there was some funny business about the signature on one of his father's checks. All lashed up, of course, and then he's pretty heavily in debt now, and they're the kind of debts he wouldn't like to go to his uncle about, whereas you may be sure the uncle's will would be in his favour. Oh, yes, I've got my eye on him, and that's why I wanted to speak to him before he saw his wife. But their statements dovetail all right, and I've been to the station, and there's no doubt whatever, that he left by the six-fifteen, that gets up to London at about ten-thirty. He went straight to his club, he says, and if that's confirmed all right, why? He couldn't have been shooting his uncle here at nine o'clock in a black beard. Oh, yes, I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard. Jab winked. I thought it grew pretty fast. Grew in the five miles from Elmer's Dale to Hunter's Lodge. Now, Americans that I've met are mostly clean shaven. Yes, it's amongst Mr. Pace's American associates that we'll have to look for the murderer. I questioned the Ouskipper first, and then a mistress, and their stories agree all right, but I'm sorry Mrs. Havering didn't get a look at the fellow. Well, she's a smart woman, and she might have noticed something that would set us on the track. I sat down and wrote a minute and lengthy account to Quaro. I was able to add various further items of information before I posted the letter. The bullet had been extracted and was proved to have been fired from a revolver identical with the one held by the police. Furthermore, Mr. Havering's movements on the night in question had been checked and verified, and it was proved beyond doubt that he had actually arrived in London by the train in question. And thirdly, a sensational development had occurred. A city gentleman living at Ealing, on crossing Haven Green to get to the District Rower station that morning, had observed a brown paper parcel stuck between the railings. Opening it, he found that it contained a revolver. He handed the parcel over to the local police station, and before night it was proved to be the one we were in search of. The pair to that had given us by Mrs. Havering. One bullet had been fired from it. All this I added to my report. A wire from Poirot arrived whilst I was at breakfast the following morning. Of course, black-bearded man was not Havering, only you or Jap would have such an idea. Wire me description of housekeeper and what clothes she wore this morning. Same of Mrs. Havering. Do not waste time taking photographs of interiors, they are underexposed and not in the least artistic. It seemed to me the Poirot's style was unnecessarily facetious. I also fancied he was a shade jealous of my position on the spot with full facilities for handling the case. His request for a description of the clothes worn by the two women appeared to me to be simply ridiculous, but I complied as well as I, a mere man, was able to. At eleven another wire came from Poirot. Advised Jap, arrest housekeeper before it is too late. Dumbfounded I took the wire to Jap. He swore softly under his breath. He's the goods, Mr. Poirot. If he says so, there's something in it. And I hardly noticed the woman. Mr. woman. I don't know that I can go so far as arresting her, but I'll have her watched. We'll go up right away and take another look at her. But it was too late. Mrs. Middleton, that quiet middle-aged woman who had appeared so normal and respectable, had vanished into thin air. Her box had been left behind. It contained only ordinary wearing apparel. There was no clue to her identity or as to her whereabouts. From Mrs. Havering we elicited all the facts we could. I engaged her about three weeks ago when Mrs. Emery, our former housekeeper, left. She came to me from Mrs. Selbourne's agency in Mount Street, a very well-known place. I get all my servants from there. They sent several women to see me, but this Mrs. Middleton seemed much the nicest and had splendid references. I engaged her spot and not notified the agency of the fact. I can't believe that there was anything wrong with her. She was such a nice, quiet woman. The thing was certainly a mystery. Whilst it was clear that the woman herself could not have committed the crime, since at the moment the shot was fired, Mrs. Havering was with her in the hall, nevertheless she must have some connection with the murder or why should she suddenly take to her heels and bolt. I wired the latest development to Poirot and suggested returning to London and making inquiries at Selbourne's agency. Poirot's reply was prompt. Useless to inquire at agency, they will never have heard of her. Find out what vehicle took her up to Hunter's Lodge when she first arrived there. Though mystified, I was obedient. The means of transport in Elmer's Dale were limited. The local garage had two battered Ford cars and there were two station flies. None of these had been requisitioned on the dating question. Then Mrs. Havering explained that she had given the woman the money for her fare down to Derbyshire and sufficient to hire a car or fly to take her up to Hunter's Lodge. There was usually one of the Fords at the station on the chance of its being required. Taking into consideration the further fact that nobody at the station had noticed the arrival of a stranger, black-bearded or otherwise, on the fatal evening everything seemed to point to the conclusion that the murderer had come to the spot in a car which had been waiting near at hand to aid his escape and that the same car had brought the mysterious housekeeper to her new post. I may mention that inquiries at the agency in London bore out Poirot's prognostication. No such woman as Mrs. Middleton had ever been on their books. They had received the Honourable Mrs. Havering's application for a housekeeper and had sent her various applicants for the post. When she sent them the engagement fee, she omitted to mention which woman she had selected. Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established in an armchair by the fire in a garish silk dressing-gun. He greeted me with much affection. He asked me, I am glad to see you. I have great affection for you. Have you enjoyed yourself? Have you run to and fro with a good japper? Have you interrogated and investigated to your heart's content? Poirot, I cried, the things are dark mystery. It will never be solved. It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it. No, indeed, it is a hard nut to crack. Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts. Oh, a veritable squirrel. It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr. Harrington Pace. You know? Well, how did you find out? Your illuminating answers to my wilds supplied me with a truth. Seer, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in order. Mr. Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will doubtless pass to his nephew. Point number one. His nephew is known to be desperately hard up. Point number two. His nephew is also known to be, shall we say, a man of rather loose moral fader. Point number three. Yet, but Roger Havering has proved to have journeyed straight up to London. A precious emin. And therefore, as Mr. Avering left Elmer's Dale at 6.50 and since Mr. Pace cannot have been killed before he left, or the doctor would have spotted the time of the crime as being given wrongly, when he examined the body, we conclude quite rightly that Mr. Avering did not shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs. Avering, Hastings. What impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired. Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared. What, she'll be found? I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about the housekeeper, don't you think, Zoistings? It struck me at once. What, she played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time. Ah, and what was her part? Well, presumably, to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man. Oh, no. That was not her part. Her part was what you have just mentioned. To provide an alibi for Mrs. Avering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her money me because she does not exist. There is no such person, as your so great Shakespeare says. Ah, it was Dickens. I murmured, unable to suppress a smile. But what do you mean, Poirot? I mean that Zo' Avering was an actress before a marriage. That you and Jap only saw the housekeeper in a dark hole. A dim, middle-aged figure in black with a faint subdued voice, eh? And finally, that neither you nor Jap, nor the local police from the housekeeper fetched, ever saw a Mrs. Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time. Oh, it was child's play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, sleeps on a bright jumper, and a hat with black girls attached, which she jams down over the gray transformation. A few deaf touches and the makeup is removed, a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zo' Avering comes down with a clear ringing voice. Nobody looks particularly at the housekeeper, why should they? There is nothing to connect her with a crime. She, too, has an alibi. But the revolver that was found at Ealing, Mrs. Avering, couldn't have placed it there. No, that was Roger Avering's job. But it was a mistake on their part. It put me on the right track. A man who has committed murder with the revolver, which he found on the spot, would fling it away at once, and he would not carry it up to London with him? No. The motive was clear. The criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Dabichir. They were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter's Lodge. Of course, the revolver found that Ealing was not the one with which Mr. Pace was shot. Roger Avering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly out wheeling by the district, a matter of about twenty minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found, and so back to town. That charming creature, his wife, quietly shoots Mr. Pace after dinner. You remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point that, then, rail loads the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with a desperate little comedy. But it's incredible. I muttered, fascinated. And yet, and yet it is true. Bien sûr, my friend, it is true. But to bring that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Zapp must do what he can. I have written him fully, but I fear very much, Estings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to fate. Or le bond, whichever you prefer. The wicked flourish like a green bay tree, I reminded him. At a price, Estings, always at a price, Guayouvou. Fero's forebodings were confirmed. Zapp, though convinced of the truth of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence to ensure a conviction. Mr. Pace's huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers. Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them. I read in the paper that the honourable Roger and Mrs. Havering were amongst those killed in the crashing of the airmail to Paris. I knew that justice was satisfied. The Million Dollar Bond Robbery What a number of Bond robberies there have been lately. I observed one morning laying aside the newspaper. I said, Mr. Pace, let's go to the bank and take the crime instead. Ha, you are under the, how do you say it, get rich quick-dack, eh, mon ami? Well, look at this last coup. The Million Dollar's worth of Liberty Bonds, which the London and Scottish bank were sending to New York, and which disappeared in such a remarkable manner on board the Olympia. If it were not for the malamere, I should delight to voyage myself on one of those big liners. murmured Poirot dreamily. Yes, indeed, I said enthusiastically, some of them must be perfect palaces, the swimming bars, the lounges, the restaurants, the palm courts. Really, it must be hard to believe that one is on the sea. Me, I always know when I am on the sea, said Poirot sadly, and all those baggatels that you enumerate, they say nothing to me. But my friend, consider for a moment the geniuses that travel as it were incognito. On board these floating palaces, as you so justly call them, one would meet the elite, the out noblesse of the criminal world. I laughed. So that's the way your enthusiasm runs. You would have liked to cross swords with the man who sneaked the Liberty Bonds? The landlady interrupted us. A young lady as wants to see you, Mr. Poirot, here's her card. The card bore the inscription Miss Esme Faqwa, and Poirot, after diving under the table to retrieve a stray crumb and putting it carefully in the waste-paper basket, nodded to the landlady to admit her. In another minute one of the most charming girls I have ever seen was ushered into the room. She was perhaps about five and twenty, with big brown eyes and a perfect figure. She was well-dressed and perfectly composed in manner. Oh, sit down, I beg of you, Mamazelle. This is my friend, Captain Nice-Things, who aids me in my little problems. Well, I'm afraid it is a big problem I have brought you today, Mr. Poirot," said the girl, giving me a pleasant bow as she seated herself. I daresay you have read about it in the papers. I am referring to the theft of Liberty Bonds on the Olympia. Some astonishment must have shown itself on Poirot's face, for she continued quickly. You are doubtless asking yourself what have I to do with a grave institution like the London and Scottish Bank. In one sense nothing, in another sense everything. You seem, Mr. Poirot, I am engaged to a Mr. Philip Ridgway. Ah! And Mr. Philip Ridgway was in charge of the bonds when they were stolen. Of course no actual blame can attach to him. It wasn't his fault in any way. Nevertheless he is half-destraught over the matter, and his uncle, I know, insists that he must carelessly have mentioned having them in his possession. It is a terrible setback to his career. Who is his uncle? Mr. Vavasor, joint general manager of the London and Scottish Bank. Now suppose, Miss Fakwa, that you recount to me the whole story. Oh, very well. Now as you know, the bank wished to extend their credits in America, and for this purpose decided to send over a million dollars in Liberty Bonds. Mr. Vavasor selected his nephew, who had occupied a position of trust in the bank for many years, and who was conversant with all the details of the bank dealings in New York to make the trip. The Olympia sailed from Liverpool on the twenty-third, and the bonds were handed over to Philip on the morning of that day by Mr. Vavasor and Mr. Shaw, the two joint general managers of the London and Scottish Bank. They were counted, enclosed in a package, and sealed in his presence, and he then locked the package at once in his portmanteau. A portmanteau with an ordinary lock? No. Mr. Shaw insisted on a special lock being fitted to it by Hubs. Philip, as I say, placed the package at the bottom of the trunk. It was stolen just a few hours before reaching New York. A rigorous search of the whole ship was made, but without result the bonds seemed literally to have vanished into thin air. Poirot made a grimace. But they did not vanish, absolutely, since I gather that they were sold in small parcels within half an hour of the docking of the Olympia. Well, undoubtedly the next thing is for me to see Mr. Ridgeway. Well, I was about to suggest that you should lunch with me at the Cheshire cheese. Philip will be there. He's meeting me. But he does not yet know that I've been consulting you on his behalf. We agreed to this suggestion readily enough and drove there in a taxi. Mr. Philip Ridgeway was there before us and looked somewhat surprised to see his fiancee arriving with two complete strangers. He was a nice looking young fellow, tall and spruce, with a touch of graying hair at the temples, though he couldn't have been much over thirty. Miss Farquhar went up to him and laid her hand on his arm. Oh, you must forgive me acting without consulting you, Philip. Let me introduce you to Monsieur Hercules Poirot, whom you must often have heard, and his friend Captain Hastings. Ridgeway looked very astonished. Oh, of course I've heard of you, Monsieur Poirot, he said, as he shook hands. But I had no idea that Esmey was thinking of consulting you about my, well, our trouble. Well, I was afraid you wouldn't let me do it, Philip, said Miss Farquhar meekly. So you took care to be on the safe side, he observed with a smile. I hope Monsieur Poirot will be able to throw some light on this extraordinary puzzle, for I confess, frankly, that I'm nearly out of my mind with worry and anxiety about it. Indeed his face looked drawn and haggard, and showed only two clearly the strain under which he was laboring. Very well, said Poirot, let us launch, and overlaunch, we will put our heads together and see what can be done. I want to hear Mr. Ridgeway's story from his own lips. Whilst we discussed the excellent staking kidney pudding of the establishment, Philip Ridgeway narrated the circumstances leading to the disappearance of the bonds. His story agreed with that of Miss Farquhar in every particular. When he had finished, Poirot took up the thread with a question. And what exactly led you to discover that the bonds had been stolen, Mr. Ridgeway? He laughed rather bitterly. Ha! The things stared me in the face, Monsieur Poirot. I couldn't have missed it. My cabin trunk was pulled half out from under the bunk, and it was all scratched and cut about, where they tried to force the lock. But I understood that it had been opened with a key. Well, yes, that's so. They tried to force it, but couldn't. And in the end, they must have got it unlocked somehow or other. Hmm, curious, said Poirot, his eyes beginning to flicker with the green light I knew so well. Very curious. Ah, they waste much, much time trying to pry it open and then, seprishti, they find they have the key all the time. For each of Hub's logs are unique. But that's just why they couldn't have had the key. It never left me day or night. You are sure of that? Oh, I can swear to it. And besides, if they had had the key or a duplicate, why should they waste time trying to force an obviously unforeseeable lock? Hmm, there is exactly the question we are asking ourselves. I ventured to prophesy that the solution, if we ever find it, will hinge on that curious fact. I beg of you not to assault me if I ask you one more question. Are you perfectly certain that you did not leave the trunk unlocked? Philip Ridgway merely looked at him, and Poirot gesticulated apologetically. Ah, no, but these things can happen, I assure you. Very well, the bonds were stolen from the trunk. Ah, what did the thief do with them? How did he manage to get ashore with them? Ah! cried Ridgway. But that's just it. How? Well, word was passed to the customs authorities and every soul that left the ship was gone over with a tooth-comb. And the bonds I gather made a bulky package? Well, certainly they did. They could hardly have been hidden on board, and anyway we know they weren't, because they were offered for sale within half an hour of the Olympia's arrival, long before I got the cables going, and the numbers sent out. One broker swears he bought some of them even before the Olympia got in. But you can't send bonds by wireless. Oh, no, no, not by wireless, but did any tug come alongside? They were only the official ones, and that was after the alarm was given when everyone was on the lookout. I was watching out myself for there being passed over to someone that way. My God, Monsieur Poirot, this thing will drive me mad. People are beginning to say I stole them myself. But you also were searched on landing, weren't you? asked Poirot gently. Yes. The young man stared at him in a puzzled manner. You do not catch my meaning, I see, said Poirot, smiling enigmatically. Now I should like to make a few inquiries at the bank. Ridgway produced a card and scribbled a few words on it. Send this in, and my uncle will see you at once. Poirot thanked him. Bad farewell to Miss Vaquard, and together we started out for Thread Needle Street in the head office of the London and Scottish Bank. On production of Ridgway's card we were led through the labyrinth of counters and desks, skirting, paying in clerks and paying out clerks, and up to a small office on the first floor where the joint general managers received us. They were two grave gentlemen, who had grown grey in the service of the bank. Mr. Vavasar had a short white beard. Mr. Shaw was clean shaven. I understand that you are strictly a private inquiry agent, said Mr. Vavasar. Quite so, quite so. We have, of course, placed ourselves in the hands of Scotland Yard. Inspector McNeill has charged with the case a very able officer, I believe. I am sure of it, said Poirot politely. You will permit a few questions on your nephew's behalf. About this lock, who ordered it from Hobbes? I ordered it myself, said Mr. Shaw. I would not trust to any clerk in the matter, as to the keys Mr. Ridgway had won and the other two are held by my colleague and myself. And no clerk has had access to them? Mr. Shaw turned inquiringly to Mr. Vavasar. I think I am correct in saying that they have remained in the safe where we placed them on the twenty-third, said Mr. Vavasar. My colleague was, unfortunately, taken ill a fortnight ago, in fact, on the very day that Philip left us. His only just recovered. Hmm, well, severe bronchitis is no joke to a man of my age, said Mr. Ridgway. I know Mr. Vavasar suffered from the hard work entailed by my absence, especially with this unexpected worry coming on top of everything. Poirot asked you more as to the judge that he was—I judged that he was endeavouring to gauge the exact amount of intimacy between uncle and nephew. Mr. Vavasar's answers were brief and punctilious. His nephew was a trusted official of the bank and had no debts or money difficulties that he knew of. He had been entrusted with similar missions in the past and finally we were politely bowed out. I am disappointed, said Poirot as we emerged into the street. What, you hope to discover more? They're such stodgy old men. No, it is not their stodgyness which disappoints me, mon ami. I do not expect to find in a bank manager a keen financier with an eagle glance, as your favourite works of fiction put it. No, I am disappointed in the case. It is too easy. Easy? Yes. Do you not find it almost childishly simple? Well, you know who stole the bonds. I do. But then we must—or why—do not confuse and fluster your self-estings. We are not going to do anything at present. But why? What are you waiting for? For the Olympia. She is due on her return trip from New York on Tuesday. But if you know who stole the bonds, why wait? He may escape. To a South Sea island where there is no extradition—no, mon ami—he would find life very uncongenial there. As to why I wait? Eh, bien. To the intelligence of Ercul Poirot the case is perfectly clear, but for the benefit of others not so greatly gifted by the good God, the inspector Magnil, 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. Ha, ha, do not then raise your self-estings. Inferity? 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 a speeding deliverable in a first-class railway carriage. 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-chance Atlantic 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 elite 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 C-24, which was next to that of Philip Ridgway. 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. Now indeed, sir, he was one of the last of the boat. I retired crestfallen and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure. Well, it's all very well, I remarked, heatedly. But that last answer must have damned your precious theory, grin, as you please. Oh, as usual you see nothing as things. That last answer is, on the contrary, the coping stone of my theory. I flung up my hands in despair. I give up! When we were in the train, speeding towards London, Poirot rode busily for a few minutes, sealing up the result in an envelope. Ah, this is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard in passing and then to the rendezvous restaurant, where I have asked Miss Ismy Faqois to do us the honour of dining with us. Well, what about Ridgway? Or what about him? Asked Poirot with a twinkle. Why, you surely don't think what you can't? Ah, the habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. At a matter of fact, I did think, if Ridgway had been the thief, which was perfectly possible, the case would have been charming, a piece of neat, methodical work. Yes, but not so charming for Miss Faqois. Oh, possibly you are right. Therefore, all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us review the case. Concedency that you are dying to do so, huh? Now, the sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes as Miss Faqois puts it into thin air. No, we will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practical at the present stage of science and consider what is likely to have become of it. Everyone asserts the incredulity of its being smuggled, I sure. Yes, but we know you may know, Hastings. I do not. I take it of you that, since it seemed incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain. It was hidden on board, also rather difficult, or it was thrown overboard. But with a cork on it, do you mean? Without a cork. I stare. 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? Well, 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? Remember, Mr. Richway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in London. Yes, but then, Guaro 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 23rd. 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. No, 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 Southampton on the same day as the Olympia, and she 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 packet is only a dummy, and the moment of its substitution must be in the office in the bank. It would be an easy matter for any of the three men present to have prepared a duplicate package which could be substituted for the genuine one. 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 robbery. But why? Because if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy, suspicion flies at once to London. No, 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. Ah, the studgy old man, Mr. Shaw. There are criminals in high places sometimes, my friend. Ah, here we are. Man was held, I have succeeded. You permit? And beaming, Puerro kissed the astonished girl, lightly, on either cheek.