Poirot Investigates - Agatha Christie - 1

Three, two, sun. EasyJet's Big Orange Tale is now on. With up to £400 off package holidays and up to 20% off flights. Book now at easyjet.com. Get out there. Selected dates and flights, sale and fifth of May. Holidays minimum spend and after protected, season fees apply. EasyJet's Big Orange Tale is now on. Wander the streets with more wonder. With up to £200 off city breaks and up to 20% off flights. Book now at easyjet.com. Get out there. Selected dates and flights, sale and fifth of May. Holidays minimum spend and after protected, season fees apply. The Audio Partners Publishing Corporation is pleased to present Poirot Investigates by Agatha Christie, read by David Sushay. This collection of 11 mysteries is complete and unabridged. In audio editions, Mystery Master. The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim. Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Jap of Scotland Jar to tea. We were sitting round the tea table waiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and sources which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick sweet chocolate, which was more to Poirot's palate than what he described as your English poison. A sharp rat-tat sounded below and a few minutes afterwards Jap entered briskly. Hope I'm not late, he said as he greeted us, to tell the truth I was yawning with Miller, the man who's in charge of the Davenheim case. I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers have been full of the strange disappearance of Mr. Davenheim, the dear partner of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On Saturday last he had walked out of his house and had never been seen since. I looked forward to extracting some interesting details from Jap. Look, I should have thought, I remarked. Did it be almost impossible for anyone to disappear nowadays? Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter, the eighth of an inch, and said sharply, Be exact, my friend, what do you mean by disappear? To which class of disappearance are you referring? Our disappearances classified and labeled them, I laughed. Jap smiled also, Poirot frowned at both of us, but suddenly they are. They fall into three categories, first and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much abused loss of memory case, rare but occasionally genuine. Third, murder and the more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of execution? Well, very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory, but someone would be sure to recognize you, especially in the case of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then bodies can't be made to vanish into thin air, sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places or in trunks. Murder will out. In the same way, the absconding clerk or the domestic defaulter is bound to be run down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He can be headed off from foreign countries, ports and railway stations are watched, and as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance will be known to everyone who reads a daily newspaper. He's up against civilization. Well, non-émi, c'est poire, you make one error. You do not love the fact that a man who had decided to make a way with another man, or with himself in a figurative sense, might be that remachine, a man of method. He might bring intelligence, talent, a careful calculation of detail to the task. And then I do not see why he should not be successful in baffling the police force. Ha-ha, but not you, I suppose, said Jab good-humidly, winking at me. He couldn't baffle you, eh, Monsieur Poirot? Poirot endeavored with a marked lack of success to look modest. Me? Also, why not? It is true that I approach such problems with an exact science, a mathematical precision, which seems alas, only too rare in the new generation of detectives. Jab grinned more widely. Oh, I don't know, he said. Miller, the man who's on this case, is a smart chap. You may be very sure he won't overlook a footprint or a cigar ash, or a crumb even. He's got eyes that see everything. So, mon ami, said Poirot, has the London sparrow. But, or the same, I should not ask the little brown bird to serve the problem of Mr. Davenheim. Come now, Monsieur, you're not going to run down the value of details as clues. Oh, by no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger is they may assume undue importance. The most details are insignificant. One or two are vital. It is the brain, the little gray cells, he tapped his forehead, on which one must rely, the senses mislead. One must seek the truth within, not without. Now, you don't mean to say, Monsieur Poirot, that you would undertake a solver case without moving from your chair, do you? That is exactly what I do mean. Granted, the facts were placed before me. I regard myself as a consulting specialist. Jap slapped his knee. Well, hanged if I don't take your word. Bet you a fiver you can't lay a hand, or rather tell me where to lay my hand on Mr. Davenheim dead or alive before a week is out. Poirot considered. Eh, bien, mon ami. I accept. Le Speur? It is the passion of you, English. Now, the facts. On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr. Davenheim took the 1240 train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country seat, the cedars, is situated. After lunch he strolled round the grounds and gave various directions to the gardeners. Now, everybody agrees that his manner was absolutely normal and as usual. After tea he put his head into his wife's boudoir, saying that he was going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added that he was expecting a Mr. Lowen on business. If he should come before he himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and asked to wait. Mr. Davenheim then left the house by the front door, passed leisurely down the drive and out to the gate, and was never seen again. From that hour he vanished completely. Hmm, pretty, eh? Very pretty. Altogether a charming little problem, Mermet Poirot, proceed, my good friend. About a quarter of an hour later, a tall, dark man with a thick black moustache rang the front doorbell and explained that he had an appointment with Mr. Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen and, in accordance with the bankers' instructions, was shown into the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr. Davenheim did not return. Finally Mr. Lowen rang the bell and explained that he was unable to wait any longer as he must catch his train back to town. Mrs. Davenheim apologized for her husband's absence, which seemed unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor. Mr. Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure. As everyone knows Mr. Davenheim did not return. Early on Sunday morning the police were communicated with, but could make neither head nor tail of the matter. Mr. Davenheim seemed literally to have vanished into thin air. He had not been to the post office, nor had he been seen passing through the village. At the station they were positive he had not departed by any train. His own motor had not left the garage. If he had hired a car to meet him in some lonely spot, it seems almost certain that by this time, in view of the large reward offered for information, the driver of it would have come forward to tell what he knew. Oh, true! There was a small race meeting at Entfield, five miles away, and if he had walked to that station he might have passed unnoticed in the crowd, but since then his photograph and a full description of him have been circulated into every newspaper and nobody's been able to give any news of him. Now we have of course received many letters from all over England, but each clue so far has ended in disappointment. On Monday morning a further sensational discovery came to light. Behind a portier in Mr. Davenheim's study stands a safe, and that safe had been broken into and rifled. The windows were fastened securely on the inside, which seems to put an ordinary burglary out of court, unless, of course, an accomplice within the house fastened them again afterwards. On the other hand, Sunday having intervened and the household being in a state of chaos, it's likely that the burglary was committed on the Saturday and remained undetected until Monday. Ah, précisément, said Poirot Dryley. Well, is he arrested, subpovresme Monsieur Lowen? Jap grinned. Not yet, but he's under pretty close supervision. Poirot nodded. What was taken from the safe? Have you any idea? We've been going into that with the junior partner of the firm and Mrs. Davenheim. Apparently there was a considerable amount in bearer bonds and a very large sum in notes, owing to some large transaction having been just carried through. There was also a small fortune in jewellery, all Mrs. Davenheim's jewels were kept in the safe. Three, two, sun. EasyJet's big orange sale is now on, with up to £400 off package holidays and up to 20% off-slides. Book now at EasyJet.com. Get out there. Selected dates and flights, sale ends 5th of May. Holidays minimum, spend a natural protected, season sees a fly. Thank you all so much for being here at our wedding. I can't believe I get to spend the rest of my life with a woman of my dreams. Speaking of dreams, have you ever dreamed of tasting all the colours of the rainbow? Because that is exactly what you get with Skittles. Five bold fruit flavours in every pack. Lemon, orange, lime, strawberry and blackcurrant. They're chewy, they're colourful, they're perfect. Just like my wife. So thank you for coming and remember to buy Skittles. Shamelessly promote the rainbow. Taste the rainbow. The purchasing of them had been a passion with her husband of late years and hardly a month passed that he didn't make her a present of some rare and costly gem. Altogether a good old sepouro thoughtfully. Now, what about Loen? Is it known what his business was with Davenines that evening? Well, the two men were apparently not on very good terms. Loen is a speculator in quite a small way. Nevertheless, he's been able once or twice to score a coup of Davenines in the market, though it seems they seldom or never actually met. It was a matter concerning some South American shares which led the banker to make his appointment. Had Davenine interests in South America then? I believe so. Mrs. Davenine happened to mention that he spent all last autumn in Buenos Aires. Any trouble in his own life were, I mean, with a husband and wife on good terms. Well, I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful. Mrs. Davenine is a pleasant rather unintelligent woman, or quite a non-entity, I think. Oh, then we must not look for the solution of the mystery there. Have the any enemies? Oh, he had plenty of financial rivals, and no doubt there are many people whom he has got the better of, who bear him no particular goodwill. But there was no one likely to make a way with him, and if they had, well, where's his body? Exactly, as Esting says, but these are a bit of coming to light with fatal persistency. Oh, by the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going around to the side of the house towards the Rose Garden. The long French window at the study opens onto the Rose Garden, and Mr. Davenine frequently entered and left the house that way. But the gardener was a good way off, at work on some cucumber frames, and cannot even say whether it was the figure of his master or not. Also, he cannot fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been before six as the gardeners ceased to work at that time. And Mr. Davenine left the house? Oh, about half past five or thereabouts. What lies beyond the Rose Garden? A lake, with a butthouse? Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you're thinking of suicide, Mr. Poirot, hey? Well, I don't mind telling you that Miller's going down to-morrow expressly to see that piece of water dragged. Well, that's the kind of man he is. Poirot smiled faintly and turned to me. Hastings, I pray you, and me that copy of Daily Make a Fun. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man. I rose and found the sheet required, and Poirot studied the features attentively. Hmm, he murmured. Where else is hair rather long and wavy, full mustache and pointed beard, and bushy eyebrows? Eyes dark? Yes. Hair and beard turning gray? The detective nodded. Well, Mr. Poirot, what have you got to say to it all, and clear as daylight, eh? On the contrary, most obscure. The Scotland Yardman looked pleased, which gives me a great ups of solving it. Finished Poirot placidly. Eh? Oh, I find it a good sign when a case is obscure. If a thing is clear as daylight, eh, eh, mistrusted, someone has made it so. Chapp shook his head almost pityingly. Well, each to their fancy, but it's not a bad thing to see your way clear ahead. I do not see, murmured Poirot. I shut my eyes and think. Chapp sighed. Well, you've got a clear week to think in. And you'll bring me any fresh developments at our eyes, eh? The results of the labours of the hard-working and linked-eyed Inspector Miller, for instance? Oh, certainly, that's in the bargain. Seems a shame, doesn't it? said Chapp to me as I accompanied him to the door. It's like robbing a child. I could not help agreeing with a smile. I was still smiling as I re-entered the room. Eh, bien, said Poirot immediately, you make fun of Papa Poirot. Is it not so? He shook his finger at me. You do not trust his gray cells, eh? Ah, and do not be confused. Let us discuss this little problem incomplete as yet, I admit, but already showing one or two points of interest. The lake, I said significantly. And even more than the lake, the Boathouse. I looked sideways at Poirot. He was smiling in his most inscrutable fashion. I felt that for the moment it would be quite useless to question him further. We heard nothing of Chapp until the following evening, when he walked in at about nine o'clock. I saw it once by his expression that he was bursting with news of some kind. Eh, bien, my friend, remarked Poirot, all goes well. Ah, but do not tell me that you have discovered the body of Mr. Davenheim in your lake, because I shall not believe you. Ah, no, we have not found the body, but we did find his clothes. The identical clothes he was wearing that day. What do you say to that? Any other clothes missing from the house? No. His valet was quite positive on that point. The rest of his wardrobe is intact. There's more. We have arrested Loewen. One of the maids whose business it is to fasten the bedroom windows declares that she saw Loewen coming towards the study through the Rose Garden about a quarter past six. That would be about ten minutes before he left the house. Then what does he himself say to that? Denied, first of all, that he'd ever left the study, but the maid was positive, and he pretended afterwards that he'd forgotten just stepping out of the window to examine an unusual species of rose. Ha, ha, ha, it's rather a weak story, hm? And this fresh evidence against him has come to light. Mr. Davenheim always wore a thick gold ring, set with a solitaire diamond on the little finger of his right hand. Well, that ring was pawned in London on Saturday night by a man called Billy Kellett. Now, he's already known to the police, did three months last autumn for lifting an old gentleman's watch. Now, it seems he tried to pawn the ring at no less than five different places. Succeeded at the last one, got gloriously drunk on the proceeds, assaulted a policeman, and was run in, in consequence. I went to Bow Street with Miller and saw him. He's sober enough now, and I don't mind admitting we pretty well frightened the life out of him, hinting he might be charged with murder. Hm-hm. This is his yarn, and a very queer one it is. He was at Entfield Races on Saturday. Though I dare say scarf pins was his line of business rather than betting. Anyway, he had a bad day and was down on his luck. He was tramping along the road to Chinkside and sat down in a ditch to rest just before he got into the village. A few minutes later he noticed a man coming along the road to the village. Dark complexion gent, hm, with a big moustache. One of them city toffs, is his description of the man. Kellett was half concealed from the road by a heap of stones. Just before he got abreast of him, the man looked quickly up and down the road, and seeing it apparently deserted, he took a small object from his pocket and threw it over the hedge. Then he went on towards the station. Now, the object he'd thrown over the hedge had fallen with a slight chink which aroused the curiosity of the human derelict in the ditch. He investigated and, after a short search, discovered the ring. Well, that's Kellett's story. Now, it's only fair to say that Loin denies it utterly, and of course the word of a man like Kellett can't be relied upon in the slightest. It's within the bounds of possibility that he met Davenheim in the lane and robbed and murdered him. Poirot shook his head. Hm, very improbable, mon ami. He had no means of disposing of the body. It would have been found by now. Secondly, the open way in which he pawned the ring makes it unlikely that he did murder to get it. Thirdly, your sneak thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly, as he has been in prison since Saturday, it would be too much of a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a description of Loin. Jap nodded. Why, I don't say you're not right, but all the same you won't get a jury to take much note of a jailbird's evidence. What seems odd to me is that Loin couldn't find a cleverer way of disposing of the ring. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. Well, after all. If he were found in the neighborhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself had dropped it. There's a why remove it from the body at all, I cried. Well, there might be a reason for that, said Jap. Do you know that just beyond the lake a little gate leads out onto the hill and not three minutes walk brings you to, uh, what do you think, eh? A lime kiln. Good heavens, I cry. You mean that the lime which destroyed the body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring? Exactly. Oh, it seems to me, I said, that that explains everything. What a horrible crime. By common consent we both turned and looked to Poirot. He seemed lost in reflection, his brow knitted as though with some supreme mental effort. He felt at last his keen intellect was asserting itself. What would his first words be? We were not long left in doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude relaxed and turning to Jap, he asked, Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. I and Mrs. Davenheim occupied the same bedroom? But the question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment we both stared in silence. Three, two, sun. EasyJet's big orange sale is now on, with up to £400 off package holidays and up to 20% off-slides. Book now at EasyJet.com. Get out there. Selected dates and flights, sale and fifth of May. Holidays minimum, spend and after protected, season sees apply. Thank you all so much for being here at our wedding. I can't believe I get to spend the rest of my life with a woman of my dreams. Speaking of dreams, have you ever dreamed of tasting all the colours of the rainbow? Because that is exactly what you get with Skittles. Five bold fruit flavours in every pack. Lemon, orange, lime, strawberry and blackcurrant. They're chewy, they're colourful, they're perfect. Just like my wife. So thank you for coming and remember to buy Skittles. Shamelessly promote the rainbow, taste the rainbow. Then Jap burst into a laugh. Go good lord, Monsieur Pryro. I thought you were coming out with something startling as to your question. Well, I'm sure I don't know. You could find out, asked Pryro with curious persistence. Well, certainly, if you really want to know. Merci, mon ami. I should be obliged if you would make a point of it. Jap stared at him a few minutes longer, but Pryro seemed to have forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me and murmuring, Poor old fellow, war's been too much for him. Gently withdrew from the room. As Pryro seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper and amused myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend's voice aroused me. He'd come out of his reverie and was looking brisk and alert. Go feth vula, mon ami. I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of interest in this affair. You become methodiculet last, said Pryro approvingly. I concealed my pleasure. Shall I read them to you? Oh, by your means. I cleared my throat. One, all the evidence points to Lowen having been the man who forced the safe. Two, he had a grudge against Abenheim. Three, he lied in his first statement that he had never left the study. Four, if you accept Billy Kellogg's story as true, Lowen is unmistakably implicated. I paused. Well, I asked, for I felt that I'd put my finger on all the vital facts. Pryro looked at me pittingly, shaking his head very gently. Oh, mon pove, ami. But it is that you have not a gift. The important detail you appreciate him never. Also, your reasoning is false. How? Let me take your four points. One, Mr. Lowen could not possibly know that he would have a chance to open the safe. He came for a business interview. He could not know beforehand that Mr. Abenheim would be absent posting a letter and that he would consequently be alone in the study. Well, he might have seized the opportunity, I suggested. And the tools? City gentlemen do not carry around housebreakers tools on the off chance. And one could not cut into that safe with a pen knife. Well, what about number two? You say Lowen had a grudge against Mr. Abenheim. What you mean is that he had once or twice got the better of him and presumably these transactions were entered into with a view of benefiting himself. In any case, you do not, as a rule, bear a grudge against a man you have got the better of. It is more likely to be the other way about. Whatever grudge there might have been would have been on Mr. Abenheim's side. Well, you can't deny that he lied about never having left the study. No. But he may have been frightened. Remember the missing man's clothes had just been discovered in the lake. And, as usual, he would have done better to speak the truth. And the fourth point? No, I grant you that. If Kellogg's story is true, Lowen is undeniably implicated. That is what makes the affair so very interesting. Well, then I did appreciate one vital fact. Perhaps, but you have entirely overlooked the two most important points, the ones which undoubtedly hold the clue to the whole matter. Let's pray what are they? One, the passion which has grown upon Mr. Abenheim in the last few years for buying jewelry. Two, his trip to Buenos Aires last autumn. Poirot, you aren't joking. No, I am serious. Ah, sacred thunder, but I hope Jap will not forget my little commission. But the detective entering into the spirit of the joke had remembered it so well that a telegram was handed to Poirot about eleven o'clock the next day. At his request I opened it and read it out. Husband and wife have occupied separate rooms since last winter. Ah, ha! cried Poirot. And now we are in mid-June. All is solved. I stared at him. You have no money in the bank of Abenheim and Salmon, mon ami? No, I said wondering. Why? Because I should advise you to withdraw it before it is too late. But why would you expect? I expect a big smash in a few days, perhaps sooner. Oh, which reminds me, we will return the compliment of a depeche to Jap. A pencil I pray you and a form. Voila! Advise you to withdraw any money deposited with firm in question. Ah! That will intrigue him, the good Jap, huh? His eyes will open wide, wide. He will not comprehend in the slightest until tomorrow or the next day. I remain skeptical, but the morrow forced me to render tribute to my friend's remarkable powers. In every paper was a huge headline telling of the sensational failure of the Davenheim bank. The disappearance of the famous financier took on a totally different aspect in the light of the revelation of the financial affairs of the bank. Before we were half way through breakfast, the door flew open and Jap rushed in. In his left hand was a paper. In his right was Poirot's telegram, which he banged down on the table in front of my friend. How did you know, Monsieur Poirot? How the blazes could you know? Poirot smiled placidly at him. Ah! Mon ami! After your wire it was a certainty. From the commencement, see you it struck me that the safe burglary was somewhat remarkable. Jewels, ready money, bearer bonds, all so conveniently arranged for whom? Well, the good Monsieur Davenheim was of those who look after number one as your saying goes. It seemed almost certain that it was arranged for himself. And then his passion of late years for buying jewelry, how simple! The funds he embezzled, he converted into jewels, very likely replacing them in turn with paste duplicates. And so he put away in a safe place under another name a considerable fortune to be enjoyed all in good time when everyone has been thrown off the track. His arrangements completed. He makes an appointment with Mr. Loewen, who has been improtent enough in the past to cross the great man once or twice. It results a hole in the safe, leaves orders that the guest is to be shown into the study and walks out of the house. Where? Poirot stopped and stretched out his hand for another boiled egg. He frowned. It is really insupportable, he murmured, that every hen lays an egg of a different size. What symmetry can there be on the breakfast table? At least they should sort them in dozens at the shop. Never mind the eggs, said Jap in patiently. Let him lay them square if they like. Tell us where our customer went to when he left the cedars. That is, if you know. He went to his hiding place. Ah, this Monsieur Davenheim. There may be some malformation in his gray cells, but they are of the first quality. Do you know where he's hiding? Certainly, it is most ingenious. For the Lord's sake, tell us then. Poirot gently collected every fragment of shell from his plate, placed them in the egg cap and reversed the empty egg shell on top of them. This little operation concluded. He smiled on the neat effect and then beamed affectionately on both of us. Oh, come, my friends, you are men of intelligence. Ask yourself the question I asked myself. If I were this man, where should I hide? Hastings, what do you say? Well, I said, I am rather inclined to think I'd not do a bolt at all. I'd stay in London, in the heart of things, travelled by tubes and buses. Ten to one I'd never be recognised, or the safety in a crowd. Poirot turned inquiringly to Jap. No, no, no, I don't agree. Now, get clear away at once. That's the only chance. I would have had plenty of time to prepare things beforehand. I'd have a yacht waiting, with steam up, and I'd be off to one of the most out-of-the-way corners of the world before the hue and cry began. We both looked at Poirot. What do you say, Monsour? For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted across his face. My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should hide? In a prison. What? You are seeking Mons. Davonheim in order to put him in prison. So you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there. What do you mean? You tell me, Mons. Davonheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless, I think if you took her up to Bow Street and confronted her with a man, Billy Kellett, she would recognize him in spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, so the rest of the world may be deceived. Billy Kellett? But he's known to the police. Did I not tell you Davonheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn. He was creating the character of Billy Kellett, doing three months, so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune as well as liberty. It was worthwhile doing the thing thoroughly, only... Yes? Eh, yeah. Afterwards, he had to wear a false beard and wig. Had to make up as himself again, and to slip the false beard is not easy. It invites detection. He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of Madame's wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since he's supposed to return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs. Davonheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure everything fitted in. The gardener, who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house, was quite right. He went to the boat house, donned his tramp clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pointing the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of both streets, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him. It's impossible, murmured Jap. Ask Madame, said my friend, smiling. The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot's plate. He opened it, and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend's brow puckered. Ah, sir, cry, but what shall I do with the new? I have much more to say. Ah, an idea. We will have a little dinner, we three. That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child? Miltaneer, my name, what have you, that you laugh so heartily? The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan. Poirot, I said. A change of air would do you good. Oh, you think so, my nameee? I am sure of it. Eh? Eh? Said my friend, smiling. It is all arranged then. Well, you'll come. Where do you propose to take me? Brighten. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine in the city put me onto a very good thing, and, well, I have money to burn, as the saying goes. Now, I think a weekend at the Grand Metropolitan would do us all the good in the world. Well, thank you. I accept most gratefully. You have the good heart to think of an old man, and the good heart it is in the end worth all the little grass cells. Ah, yes, yes, I, who speak to you, I'm in danger of forgetting that, sometimes. I did not relish the implication. I fancy that Poirot is sometimes a little inclined to underestimate my mental capacities, but his pleasure was so evident that I put my slight annoyance aside. Then that's all right, I said hastily. Saturday evening saw us dining at the Grand Metropolitan in the midst of a jolly throng. All the world and his wife seemed to be at Brighten. The dresses were marvellous, and the jewels, worn sometimes with more love of display than good taste, were something magnificent. Ah, it is a good sight, this, murmured Poirot. This is the home of the profiteer. Is it not so esthings? No, it's supposed to be, I replied, but we'll hope they aren't all tarned with the profiteering brush. Poirot gazed around him placidly. The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains to crime instead of to its detection. What a magnificent opportunity for some thief of distinction, eh? Oh, my God, esthings, that stout woman by the pillar. She is, as you would say, plastered with gems. I followed his eyes. Why? I exclaimed. It's Mrs. Oppelson. You know her? Well, slightly. Her husband is a rich stockbroker who made a fortune in the recent oil-boom. After dinner we ran across the Oppelson's in the lounge, and I introduced Poirot to them. We chatted for a few minutes and ended by having our coffee together. Poirot said a few words in praise of some of the costlier gems displayed on the lady's ample bosom, and she brightened up at once. Oh, it's a perfect hobby of mine, Mr. Poirot. I just love jewellery. Ed knows my weakness, and every time things go well he brings me something new. Are you interested in precious stones? Oh, I have had a good deal to do with them one time and another, madam. My profession has brought me into contact with some of the most famous jewels in the world. He went on to narrate with discreet pseudonyms the story of the historic jewels of a reigning house, and Mrs. Oppelson listened with bated breath. Oh, there now, she exclaimed, as he ended, if it isn't just like a play. You know, I've got some pearls of my own that have a history attached to them. I believe it's supposed to be one of the finest necklaces in the world. The pearls are so beautifully matched and so perfect in colour. I declare I really must run up and get it. Oh, madam, protested Poirot, you are too amiable. Pray do not derange yourself. Oh, but I'd like to show it to you. The Buxom Dame waddled across to the lift briskly enough. Her husband, who had been talking to me, looked at Poirot inquiringly. Madam, your wife is so amiable as to insist on showing me her pearl necklace. Explained the latter. Oh, the pearls! Oppelson smiled in a satisfied fashion. Well, they are worth seeing. So pretty penny, too. Still, the money is there all right. I could get what I paid for the many days. Well, perhaps more. May have to, too, if things go on as they are now. Money is confoundedly tight in the city. All this infernal EPD, he rambled on, launching into technicalities where I could not follow him. He was interrupted by a small page boy who approached and murmured something in his ear. Eh, what? Well, yes, I'll come at once. Not take an ill, is she? Excuse me, gentlemen. He left us abruptly. Poirot leaned back and lit one of his tiny Russian cigarettes. Then, carefully and meticulously, he arranged the empty coffee cups in a neat row and beamed happily on the result. The minutes passed. The Oppelson's did not return. Curious, I remarked at length. I wonder when they will come back. Poirot watched the ascending spirals of smoke and then said thoughtfully, They will not come back. Oh, why? Because, my friend, something has happened. Well, what sort of thing? How do you know? I asked curiously. Poirot smiled. A few minutes ago, the manager came hurriedly out of his office and ran upstairs. Now he was much agitated. The lift boy is deep in talk with one of the pages. The lift bell has rung three times, but he heeds it not. Thirdly, even the wetters are distraint. And to make a wetter distraint, Poirot shook his head with an air of finality, the affair must indeed be of the first magnitude. Ah, it is as I thought. Here comes the police. Two men had just entered the hotel. One in uniform, the other in plain clothes. They spoke to a page and were immediately ushered upstairs. A few minutes later, the same boy descended and came up to where we were sitting. Thank you all so much for being here at our wedding. I can't believe I get to spend the rest of my life with a woman of my dreams. Speaking of dreams, have you ever dreamed of tasting all the colours of the rainbow? Because that is exactly what you get with Skittles. Five bold fruit flavours in every pack. Lemon, orange, lime, strawberry and blackcurrant. They're chewy, they're colourful, they're perfect. Just like my wife. So thank you for coming and remember to buy Skittles. Shamelessly promote the rainbow. Taste the rainbow. Mr. Opperson's compliments and would you step upstairs? Poirot sprang nimbly to his feet. One would have said that he awaited the summons. I followed with no less alacrity. The Opperson's apartments were situated on the first floor. After knocking on the door, the page boy retired and we answered the summons. Come in. A strange scene met our eyes. The room was Mrs. Opperson's bedroom and in the centre of it, lying back in an armchair, was the lady herself weeping violently. She presented an extraordinary spectacle with the tears making great furrows in the powder with which her complexion was liberally coated. Mr. Opperson was striding up and down angrily. The two police officials stood in the middle of the room, one with a notebook in hand. A hotel chambermaid looking frightened to death stood by the fireplace and on the other side of the room, a French woman, obviously Mrs. Opperson's maid, was weeping and wringing her hands with an intensity of grief that rivaled that of her mistress. Into this pandemonium stepped Poirot, neat and smiling. Immediately, with an energy surprising in one of her bulk, Mrs. Opperson sprang from her chair towards him. There now. Ed may say what he likes, but I believe in luck I do. It was fated I should meet you the way I did this evening and I have a feeling that if you can't get my pearls back for me, nobody can. No, calm yourself, I pray of you, madame. Poirot patting her hand soothingly. Reassure yourself, all will be well, Ecculpoirot will aid you. Mr. Opperson turned to the police inspector. There'll be no objection to my calling in this gentleman, I suppose. Ah, none at all, sir, replied the man civilly, but with complete indifference. Perhaps now your lady's feeling better, she'll just let us have the facts. Mrs. Opperson looked helplessly at Poirot. He led her back to her chair. No, seat yourself, madame, and recount to us the whole history without agitating yourself. Thus, abdued, Mrs. Opperson dried her eyes gingerly and began. I came upstairs after dinner to fetch my pearls for Mr. Poirot here to see. The chambermaid and Celestine were both in the room as usual. Excuse me, madame, but what do you mean by as usual? Mr. Opperson explained. Well, I make it a rule that no one is to come into this room unless Celestine, the maid, is there also. The chambermaid does the room in the morning while Celestine is present and comes in after dinner to turn down the beds under the same conditions. Otherwise, she never enters the room. Well, as I was saying, continued Mrs. Opperson. I came up, I went to the drawer here. She indicated the bottom right-hand drawer at the knee-hold dressing table. I took out my dual case and unlocked it. It seemed quite as usual, but the pearls were not there. The inspector had been busy with his notebook. When had you last seen them? he asked. Well, they were there when I went down to dinner. You're sure? Oh, quite sure. I was uncertain whether to wear them or not, but in the end I decided on the emeralds and put the pearls back in the dual case. And who locked up the dual case? I did. I wear the key on a chain around my neck. She held it up as she spoke. The inspector examined it and shrugged his shoulders. Oh, the thief must have had a duplicate key. It was no difficult matter. The lock is quite a simple one. Now, what did you do after you'd locked the dual case? I put it back in the bottom drawer where I always keep it. You didn't lock the drawer? No, I never do. My mate remains in the room till I come up, so there's no need. The inspector's face grew grayer. So am I to understand that the jewels were there when you went down to dinner and that since then the maid has not left the room? Suddenly, as though the horror of her own situation for the first time burst upon her, Celestine Attida piercing shriek and flinging herself upon Poirot poured out a torrent of Inca here in French. No, the suggestion was infamous that she should be suspected of robbing Madame. She was well known to be of a stupidity incredible, but Monsieur, who was a Frenchman, a Belgian, interjected Poirot, but Celestine paid no attention to the correction. Oh, Monsieur would not stand by and see her falsely accused while that infamous chambermaid was allowed to go scot-free. She had never liked her. A bold, red-faced thing, a born thief. She had said from the first that she was not honest and had kept a sharp watch over her too when she was doing Madame's room. Let those idiots of policemen such her and if they did not find Madame's pearls on her it would be very surprising. Although this harangue was uttered in rapid and virulent French, Celestine had interladed it with a wealth of gesture and the chambermaid realised at least a part of her meaning. She reddened angrily. Well, if that foreign woman saying I took the pearls, it's a lie, she declared heatedly, I never so much as saw them. Eh, sir, sir, screamed the other, you will find it as I say. Well, you're a liar, you hear, said the chambermaid, advancing upon her. Stole them yourself and want to put it on me. Why, I was only in the room about three minutes before the lady came up and then you were sitting here the whole time as you always do like a cat watching a mouse. The inspector looked across inquiringly at Celestine. Is that true? Didn't you leave the room at all? Well, I did not actually leave her alone. Admitted Celestine reluctantly. But I went into my own room through the door here twice, the one to fetch a reel of cotton and one for my scissors. She must have done it then. But you wasn't gone a minute! retorted the chambermaid angrily. Just plop down in again. I'd be glad if the police would search me. I've got nothing to be afraid of. At this moment there was a tap at the door. The inspector went to it, his face brightened when he saw who it was. Ah, he said. Oh, that was rather fortunate. I sent for one of our female searchers and she's just arrived. Perhaps if you wouldn't mind going into the room next door. He looked at the chambermaid who stepped across the threshold with a toss of her head. The searcher following her closely. The French girl had sunk sobbing into a chair. Poirot was looking around the room. Where does that door lead? he inquired, nodding his head toward the one by the window. I went to the next apartment, I believe, said the inspector. It's bolted anyway on this side. Poirot walked across to it, tried it, then drew back the bolt and tried it again. And on the other side as well, he remarked, well, that seems to rule out that. He walked over to the windows, examining each of them in turn. Ah, and again nothing, not even a balcony outside. More even if there were, said the inspector impatiently, I don't see how that would help us if the maid never left the room. Ah, evidently, said Poirot, not disconcerted. As men was always positive she did not leave the room, he was interrupted by the reappearance of the chambermaid and the police searcher. Nothing, said the latter, laconically. Well, I should hope not indeed, said the chambermaid, virtuously. And that French hussy ought to be ashamed of herself, taken away an honest girl's character. Now there, there, my girl, that's all right, said the inspector opening the door. Nobody suspects you? You go along and get on with your work. The chambermaid went unwillingly. You going to search her? She demanded, pointing at Celestine. Yes, yes. He shot the door on her and turned the key. Celestine accompanied the searcher into the small room in her turn. A few minutes later she also returned. Nothing had been found on her. The inspector's face grew graver. Ah, I'm afraid I left to ask you to come along with me all the same, Miss. He turned to Mrs. Oppelson. I'm sorry, madam, but all the evidence points that way. If she's not got them on her, they are hidden somewhere about the room. Celestine uttered a piercing shriek and clung to Poirot's arm. The latter bent and whispered something in the girl's ear. She looked up at him doubtfully. Sissy Monauvant, I assure you it is better not to resist. Then he turned to the inspector. You permit, Monsieur? A little experiment, purely for my own satisfaction. It depends on what it is, replied the police officer non-committedly. Poirot addressed Celestine once more. You have told us that you went into your room to fetch a reel of cotton. Now whereabouts was it? On top of the chest of drawers, Monsieur. And the scissors? Oh, they also. Now would it be troubling you too much, ma'amazelle, to ask you to repeat those two actions? You are sitting here with your work, you say? Celestine sat down and then, at a sign from Poirot, rose, passed into the adjoining room, took up an object from the chest of drawers, and returned. Poirot divided his attention between her movements and a large turnip of a watch, which he held in the palm of his hand. Again, if you please, ma'amazelle. In the conclusion of the second performance, he made a note in his pocketbook and returned the watch to his pocket. Thank you, ma'amazelle, and you, Monsieur, he bowed to the inspector for your courtesy. The inspector seemed somewhat entertained by this excessive politeness. Celestine departed in a flood of tears, accompanied by the woman and the plain clothes official. Then, with a brief apology to Mrs. Oppelson, the inspector set to work to ransack the room. He pulled out drawers, opened cupboards, completely unmade the bed, and tapped the floor. Mr. Oppelson looked on skeptically. You really think you'll find them? Yes, sir. It stands to reason. She hadn't time to take them out of the room. The ladies discovering the robberies so soon upset her plans. No, they're here right enough. One of the two must have hidden them, and it's very unlikely for the chambermaid to have done so. More than unlikely. Impossible! said Poirot quietly. Eh? The inspector stared. Poirot smiled modestly. I will demonstrate. Hastings, my good friend, take my watch in your hand. Uh-uh, with care. It is a family heirloom. Just now I timed ma'amazelle's movements. Her first absence from the room was of twelve seconds, her second of fifteen. Now, observe my actions. Ma'am, will have the kindness to give me the key of the jewel case. I thank you. My friend Hastings will have the kindness to say, go. Go! I said. With almost incredible swiftness, Poirot wrenched open the drawer of the dressing table, extracted the jewel case, opened the key in the lock, opened the case, selected a piece of jewelry, shut and locked the case, and returned it to the drawer, which he pushed to again. His movements were like lightning. Well, mon ami, he demanded of me breathlessly. Forty-six seconds, I replied. Ah, you see! he looked around. There would have not been time for the chambermaid even to take the necklace out. Far less hide it. Well, that settles it on the maid, said the inspector with satisfaction, and returned to his search. He passed into the maid's bedroom next door. Poirot was frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly he shot a question at Mr. Oppelson. As his necklace it was without doubt ensured. Mr. Oppelson looked a trifle surprised at the question. Uh, yes, he said hesitatingly. That is so. Oh, but what does that matter? Broke in Mrs. Oppelson tearfully. It's my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same. Oh, I comprehend, madame. Said Poirot soothingly. I comprehend perfectly. To laugh from sentiment is everything. Is it not so? But, monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility will that please find some slight consolation in the fact? Well, of course, of course, said Mr. Oppelson rather uncertainly. Still, um... He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He came in dangling something from his fingers. With a cry Mrs. Oppelson heaved herself up from her chair. She was a changed woman. Oh! Oh, my necklace! She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round. Well, where was it? Demanded Oppelson. Made's bed in among the springs of the wire mattress. Oh, she must have stolen it and hidden it there before the chambermaid arrived on the scene. Uh, you permit, madame? Said Poirot gently. He took the necklace from her and examined it closely. Then handed it back with a bow. I'm afraid, madame, you'll have to hand it over to us for the time being, said the inspector. We shall want it for the charge, but it shall be returned to you as soon as possible. Mr. Oppelson frowned. Uh, is that necessary? I'm afraid so, sir, just a formality. Oh, let him take it dead, cried his wife. I'd feel safer if he did. I shouldn't sleep a wink thinking someone else might try to get hold of it. Oh, that wretched girl! And I would never have believed it of her. Oh, there, there, my dear. Don't take on so. I felt a gentle pressure on my arm. It was Poirot. Thank you all so much for being here at our wedding. I can't believe I get to spend the rest of my life with a woman of my dreams. Speaking of dreams, have you ever dreamed of tasting all the colours of the rainbow? Because that is exactly what you get with Skittles. Five bold fruit flavours in every pack. Lemon, orange, lime, strawberry and black currant. They're chewy, they're colourful, they're perfect. Just like my wife. So thank you for coming and remember to boy skittles. I should rather like to see the room next door. The door from the corridor was not locked and we entered. The room which was a large double one was unoccupied. Dust lay about rather noticeably and my sensitive friend gave a characteristic grimace as he ran his finger round a rectangular mark on a table near the window. The service leaves to be desired, he observed, dryly. He was staring thoughtfully out of the window and seemed to have fallen into a brown study. Well, I demanded impatiently, what did we come in here for? He started, ah, je vous demande pas d'homme mon ami. I wish to see if the door was really bolted on this side also. Well, I said, glancing at the door which communicated with the room we had just left. It is bolted. Poirot nodded. He still seemed to be thinking. And anyway, I continued, what does it matter? The case is over. Ah, I wish you'd had more chance of distinguishing yourself. But it was the kind of case that even a stiff-backed idiot like that inspector couldn't go wrong over. Poirot shook his head. The case is not over, my friend. It will not be over until we find out who stole the bells. But the maid did. Why do you say that? Why? I stammered. Well, they were found actually in her mattress. Ah, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, said Poirot impatiently. Those were not the bells. What? Imitation, mon ami. The statement took my breath away. Poirot was smiling placidly. The good inspector obviously knows nothing of jewels, but presently there will be a fine a la ballou. Come, I cried, dragging at his arm. Where? What, we must tell the opposons at once. Oh, I think not. But that poor woman, Epien, that poor woman, as you call her, will have a much better night believing the jewels to be safe. But the thief may escape with them. As usual, my friend, you speak without reflection. How do you know that the pearls, Mrs. Opperson, locked up so carefully tonight were not the false ones, and that a real robbery did not take place at a much earlier date? Oh, I said bewildered. Exactly, said Poirot beaming, we start again. He led the way out of the room, paused a moment as though considering, and then walked down to the end of the corridor, stopping outside the small den where the chambermaids and valleys of the respective floors congregated. Our particular chambermaid appeared to be holding a small court there, and to be retailing her late experiences to an appreciative audience. She stopped in the middle of a sentence, Poirot bowed with his usual politeness. Excuse that I do not want you, but I shall be obliged if you will unlock for me the door of Mr. Opperson's room. The woman rose willingly, and we accompanied her down the passage again. Mr. Opperson's room was on the other side of the corridor, its door facing that of his wife's room. The chambermaid unlocked it with her pasquie, and we entered. As she was about to depart, Poirot detained her. One moment. Have you ever seen among the effects of Mr. Opperson a card like this? He held out a plain white card, rather highly glazed and uncommon in appearance. The maid took it and scrutinized it carefully. Oh, no, sir, I can't say I have. But anyway, the valet has most to do with the gentleman's rooms. Oh, I see. Thank you. Poirot took back the card. The woman departed. Poirot appeared to reflect a little. Then he gave a short, sharp nod of the head. Ring the bell, I pray, of you hastings, three times for the valet. I obeyed, devoured with curiosity. Meanwhile, Poirot had emptied the waste-paper basket on the floor and was swiftly going through its contents. In a few moments the valet answered the bell. To him, Poirot put the same question and handed him the card to examine. But the response was the same. The valet had never seen a card of that particular quality among Mr. Opperson's belongings. Poirot thanked him and he withdrew, somewhat unwillingly, with an inquisitive glance at the overturned waste-paper basket and the litter on the floor. He could hardly have helped overhearing Poirot's thoughtful remark as he bundled the torn papers back again. And the necklace was heavily unsure then. Poirot, I cried, I see, you see nothing, my friend, he replied quickly, as usual, nothing at all. It is incredible, but there it is. Let us return to our own apartments. We did so in silence. Once there, to my intense surprise, Poirot affected a rapid change of clothing. I go to London tonight, he explained. It is imperative. What? No, absolutely, the real work that of the brain, those brave little grass cells, it is done. I go to seek the confirmation. I shall find it impossible to deceive, Erkyl Poirot. You'll come a cropper one of these days, I observed, rather disgusted by his vanity. Do not be enraged, I beg of you, my name me. I count on you to do me a service of your friendship. Of course, I said eagerly, rather ashamed of my morose-ness. What is it? The sleeve of my coat that I have taken off, will you brush it? You see, you a little white powder has clung to it. You, without doubt, observed me run my finger around the drawer at the dressing table. Ah, no, I didn't. Ah, you should observe my actions, my friend. Thus I obtained the powder on my finger, and being a little overexcited, I rubbed it on my sleeve. An action without method which I deplore, false to all my principles. But what was the powder? I asked, not particularly interested, in Poirot's principles. Not the poison of the Poirot, replied Poirot with a twinkle. I see your imagination, Monty, I should say it was French chalk. French chalk, yes? A cabinet-makers use it to make drawers run smoothly. I laughed. You old sinner, I thought you were working up to something exciting. Or a war, my friend? I save myself. I fly. The door shut behind him. With a smile, half of derision, half of affection, I picked up the coat and stretched out my hand for the clothesbrush. The next morning, hearing nothing from Poirot, I went out with Stroll, met some old friends, and lunched with them at their hotel. In the afternoon we went for a spin, a punctured tire delayed us, and it was past eight when I got back to the Grand Metropolitan. The first sight that met my eyes was Poirot, looking even more diminutive than usual, sandwiched between the opplesons, beaming in a state of placid satisfaction. Ah, monie mia stings! he cried, and sprang to meet me. Embrace me, my friend, all has marched to a mavel. Luckily the embrace was merely figurative, not a thing one is always sure of with Poirot. Do you mean—I began. Oh, just wonderful, I call it! said Mrs. Oppleson, smiling all over her fat face. Didn't I tell you, Ed, that if he couldn't get back my pearls, nobody would? You did, my dear, you did, and you were right. I looked helplessly at Poirot, and he answered the glance. My friend, they stings is, as you say in England, all at the seaside. Seat yourself, and I will recount to you all the affair that had so happily ended. Ended? Oh, but yes, they are arrested. Well, who are arrested? The chambermaid, and the valet, parblure. You did not suspect, not with my parting hint about the French joke? Well, you said cabinet makers used it. But certainly they do. To make drawers slide easily. Somebody wanted a drawer to slide in and out without any noise. Who could that be? Obviously, only the chambermaid. The plan was so ingenious that it did not, at once, leap to the eye, not even to the eye of Erkul Poirot. Now listen, this was how it was done. The valet was in the empty room next door, waiting. The French maid leaves the room. Quick as a flash, the chambermaid whips open the drawer, takes out the dual case, and slipping back the bolt passes it through the door. The valet opens it at his leisure with the duplicate key with which he has provided himself, extracts the necklace, and waits his time. Celestine leaves the room again, and, pssst, in a flash, the case is passed back again and replaced in the drawer. Madame arrives. The theft is discovered. The chambermaid demands to be searched with a good deal of righteous ignition, and leaves the room without a stain on her character. The imitation necklace, with which they have provided themselves, has been concealed in the French girl's bed that morning by the chambermaid. A master stroke, sa! But what did you go to London for? You remember the card? Certainly. It puzzled me. Well, it puzzles me still. I thought, well, I hesitated delicately, glancing at Mr. Oppelsen. Poirot laughed heartily. Ha ha! Une blague! For the benefit of the valet. The card was one we especially prepared suffice for fingerprints. I went straight to Scotland Yard, asked for our old friend Inspector Japp, and laid the facts before him. As I had suspected, the fingerprints proved to be those of two well-known jewel thieves who had been wanted for some time. Japp came down with me. The thieves were arrested, and the necklace was discovered in the valet's possession. A clever pair. But they failed in method. Have I not told you, I steams, at least thirty-six times that without method, at least thirty-six thousand times, I interrupted. But where did their method break down? Mon ami. It is a good plan to take a place as chambermaid of valet. But you must not shirk your work. They left an empty room undusted, and therefore, when the man put down the jewel case on the little table near the communicating door, it left a square mark. I remember, I cried. Before I was undecided, then I knew. There was a moment's silence. And I've got my pearls, said Mrs. Oppelsen as a sort of Greek chorus. Well, I said, I'd better have some dinner. Poirot accompanied me. Well, this ought to mean kudos for you, I observed. Oh, Pada too replied Poirot tranquilly. Japp and the local inspector will divide the credit between them, but he tapped his pocket. I have a cheque here from Mr. Oppelsen and how you say my friend. This weekend has not gone according to plan. Shall we return here next weekend at my expense this time? End of disc one. Please continue with the next disc. Our cookie dough ice cream is already loaded with chunks. It's a classic for a reason. Could we make it even more cookier? Go on. The best way to top it was the bottom. Let's just clarify that with cookies. Introducing the new Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich, our legendary ice cream packed with cookie dough chunks between soft vanilla and cocoa marbled cookies. No spoon needed. More ways to enjoy cookie dough. Count me in. Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich. What if Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream could be even more cookier? Legendary cookie dough ice cream between two cookies. Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich. Go for more. At Ben & Jerry's, we had a thought our cookie dough ice cream is already loaded with chunks. It's a classic for a reason. Could we make it even more cookier? Go on. The best way to top it was the bottom. Let's just clarify that with cookies. Introducing the new Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich, our legendary ice cream packed with cookie dough chunks between soft vanilla and cocoa marbled cookies. No spoon needed. More ways to enjoy cookie dough. Count me in. The new Ben & Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich.