So far, in the cases which I have recorded, Poirot’s investigations
have started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and
have proceeded from thence by a process of logical deduction to
the final triumphant unravelling. In the events I am now about to
chronicle, a remarkable chain of circumstances led from the
apparently trivial incidents which first attracted Poirot’s
attention to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual
case.
I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald
Parker. There had been, perhaps, about half a dozen people there
besides my host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to
do sooner or later wherever Parker found himself, on the subject
of house-hunting in London. Houses and flats were Parker’s special
hobby. Since the end of the War, he had occupied at least half a
dozen different flats and maisonnettes. No sooner was he settled
anywhere than he would light unexpectedly upon a new find, and
would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly
always accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd
business head, but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated
him, and not a desire to make money at it. We listened to Parker
for some time with the respect of the novice for the expert. Then
it was our turn, and a perfect babel of tongues was let loose.
Finally the floor was left to Mrs. Robinson, a charming little
bride who was there with her husband. I had never met them before,
as Robinson was only a recent acquaintance of Parker’s.
“Talking of flats,” she said, “have you heard of our piece of luck,
Mr. Parker? We’ve got a flat—at last! In Montagu Mansions.”
“Well,” said Parker, “I’ve always said there are plenty of flats—at
a price!”
“Yes, but this isn’t at a price. It’s dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a
year!”
“But—but Montagu Mansions is just off Knightsbridge, isn’t it? Big
handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the
same name stuck in the slums somewhere?”
“No, it’s the Knightsbridge one. That’s what makes it so wonderful.”
“Wonderful is the word! It’s a blinking miracle. But there must be
a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?”
“No premium!”
“No prem—oh, hold my head, somebody!” groaned Parker.
“But we’ve got to buy the furniture,” continued Mrs. Robinson.
“Ah!” Parker brisked up. “I knew there was a catch!”
“For fifty pounds. And it’s beautifully furnished!”
“I give it up,” said Parker. “The present occupants must be lunatics
with a taste for philanthropy.”
Mrs. Robinson was looking a little troubled. A little pucker
appeared between her dainty brows.
“It _is_ queer, isn’t it? You don’t think that—that—the place is
_haunted_?”
“Never heard of a haunted flat,” declared Parker decisively.
“N-o.” Mrs. Robinson appeared far from convinced. “But there were
several things about it all that struck me as—well, queer.”
“For instance——” I suggested.
“Ah,” said Parker, “our criminal expert’s attention is aroused!
Unburden yourself to him, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is a great
unraveller of mysteries.”
I laughed, embarrassed but not wholly displeased with the rôle
thrust upon me.
“Oh, not really queer, Captain Hastings, but when we went to the
agents, Stosser and Paul—we hadn’t tried them before because they
only have the expensive Mayfair flats, but we thought at any rate
it would do no harm—everything they offered us was four and five
hundred a year, or else huge premiums, and then, just as we were
going, they mentioned that they had a flat at eighty, but that they
doubted if it would be any good our going there, because it had
been on their books some time and they had sent so many people to
see it that it was almost sure to be taken—‘snapped up’ as the
clerk put it—only people were so tiresome in not letting them know,
and then they went on sending, and people get annoyed at being sent
to a place that had, perhaps, been let some time.”
Mrs. Robinson paused for some much needed breath, and then
continued: “We thanked him, and said that we quite
understood it would probably be no good, but that we should
like an order all the same—just in case. And we went there
straight away in a taxi, for, after all, you never know. No.
4 was on the second floor, and just as we were waiting for
the lift, Elsie Ferguson—she’s a friend of mine, Captain
Hastings, and they are looking for a flat too—came hurrying
down the stairs. ‘Ahead of you for once, my dear,’ she said.
‘But it’s no good. It’s already let.’ That seemed to finish
it, but—well, as John said, the place was very cheap, we
could afford to give more, and perhaps if we offered a
premium.——A horrid thing to do, of course, and I feel quite
ashamed of telling you, but you know what flat-hunting is.”
I assured her that I was well aware that in the struggle for
house-room the baser side of human nature frequently triumphed over
the higher, and that the well-known rule of dog eat dog always
applied.
“So we went up and, would you believe it, the flat wasn’t let at
all. We were shown over it by the maid, and then we saw the
mistress, and the thing was settled then and there. Immediate
possession and fifty pounds for the furniture. We signed the
agreement next day, and we are to move in to-morrow!” Mrs. Robinson
paused triumphantly.
“And what about Mrs. Ferguson?” asked Parker. “Let’s have your
deductions, Hastings.”
“‘Obvious, my dear Watson,’” I quoted lightly. “She went to the
wrong flat.”
“Oh, Captain Hastings, how clever of you!” cried Mrs. Robinson
admiringly.
I rather wished Poirot had been there. Sometimes I have the feeling
that he rather underestimates my capabilities.
• • • • • • •
The whole thing was rather amusing, and I propounded the thing as
a mock problem to Poirot on the following morning. He seemed
interested, and questioned me rather narrowly as to the rents of
flats in various localities.
“A curious story,” he said thoughtfully. “Excuse me, Hastings, I
must take a short stroll.”
When he returned, about an hour later, his eyes were gleaming with
a peculiar excitement. He laid his stick on the table, and brushed
the nap of his hat with his usual tender care before he spoke.
“It is as well, _mon ami_, that we have no affairs of moment on
hand. We can devote ourselves wholly to the present investigation.”
“What investigation are you talking about?”
“The remarkable cheapness of your friend’s, Mrs. Robinson’s, new
flat.”
“Poirot, you are not serious!”
“I am most serious. Figure to yourself, my friend, that the real
rent of those flats is £350. I have just ascertained that from the
landlord’s agents. And yet this particular flat is being sublet at
eighty pounds! Why?”
“There must be something wrong with it. Perhaps it is haunted, as
Mrs. Robinson suggested.”
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“Then again how curious it is that her friend tells her the flat
is let, and, when she goes up, behold, it is not so at all!”
“But surely you agree with me that the other woman must have gone
to the wrong flat. That is the only possible solution.”
“You may or may not be right on that point, Hastings. The fact
still remains that numerous other applicants were sent to see it,
and yet, in spite of its remarkable cheapness, it was still in the
market when Mrs. Robinson arrived.”
“That shows that there must be something wrong about it.”
“Mrs. Robinson did not seem to notice anything amiss. Very curious,
is it not? Did she impress you as being a truthful woman, Hastings?”
“She was a delightful creature!”
“_Évidemment!_ since she renders you incapable of replying to my
question. Describe her to me, then.”
“Well, she’s tall and fair; her hair’s really a beautiful shade of
auburn——”
“Always you have had a penchant for auburn hair!” murmured Poirot.
“But continue.”
“Blue eyes and a very nice complexion and—well, that’s all, I
think,” I concluded lamely.
“And her husband?”
“Oh, he’s quite a nice fellow—nothing startling.”
“Dark or fair?”
“I don’t know—betwixt and between, and just an ordinary sort of
face.”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, there are hundreds of these average men—and, anyway, you
bring more sympathy and appreciation to your description of women.
Do you know anything about these people? Does Parker know them
well.”
“They are just recent acquaintances, I believe. But surely, Poirot,
you don’t think for an instant——”
Poirot raised his hand.
“_Tout doucement, mon ami_. Have I said that I think anything? All
I say is—it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light
upon it; except perhaps the lady’s name, eh, Hastings?”
“Her name is Stella,” I said stiffly, “but I don’t see——”
Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed
to be amusing him vastly.
“And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous!”
“What on earth——”
“And stars give light! _Voilà!_ Calm yourself, Hastings. Do not
put on that air of injured dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu
Mansions and make a few inquiries.”
I accompanied him, nothing loath. The Mansions were a handsome
block of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was
sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot
addressed himself:
“Pardon, but could you tell me if a Mr. and Mrs. Robinson reside
here?”
The porter was a man of few words and apparently of a sour or
suspicious disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out:
“No. 4. Second floor.”
“I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?”
“Six months.”
I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot’s
malicious grin.
“Impossible,” I cried. “You must be making a mistake.”
“Six months.”
“Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and fair with reddish gold
hair and——”
“That’s ’er,” said the porter. “Come in the Michaelmas quarter,
they did. Just six months ago.”
He appeared to lose interest in us and retreated slowly up the
hall. I followed Poirot outside.
“_Eh bien_, Hastings?” my friend demanded slyly. “Are you so sure
now that delightful women always speak the truth?”