“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 Esmée Farquhar, 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.
“Sit down, I beg of you, mademoiselle. This is my friend, Captain
Hastings, who aids me in my little problems.”
“I am afraid it is a big problem I have brought you to-day, Monsieur
Poirot,” said the girl, giving me a pleasant bow as she seated
herself. “I dare say 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 in Poirot’s face, for she
continued quickly: “You are doubtless asking yourself what I have
to do with a grave institution like the London and Scottish Bank.
In one sense nothing, in another sense everything. You see, Monsieur
Poirot, I am engaged to Mr. Philip Ridgeway.”
“Aha! and Mr. Philip Ridgeway——”
“Was in charge of the bonds when they were stolen. Of course no
actual blame can attach to him, it was not his fault in any way.
Nevertheless, he is half distraught over the matter, and his uncle,
I know, insists that he must carelessly have mentioned having them
in his possession. It is a terrible set-back in his career.”
“Who is his uncle?”
“Mr. Vavasour, joint general manager of the London and Scottish
Bank.”
“Suppose, Miss Farquhar, that you recount to me the whole story?”
“Very well. 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. Vavasour 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’s dealings in
New York, to make the trip. The Olympia sailed from Liverpool on
the 23rd, and the bonds were handed over to Philip on the morning
of that day by Mr. Vavasour 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
Hubbs’s. 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.”
“I was about to suggest that you should lunch with me at the
‘Cheshire Cheese.’ Philip will be there. He is meeting me, but does
not yet know that I have 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 fiancée arriving with two complete strangers.
He was a nice-looking young fellow, tall and spruce, with a touch
of greying hair at the temples, though he could not have been much
over thirty.
Miss Farquhar went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
“You must forgive my acting without consulting you, Philip,” she
said. “Let me introduce you to Monsieur Hercule Poirot, of whom
you must often have heard, and his friend, Captain Hastings.”
Ridgeway looked very astonished.
“Of course I have heard of you, Monsieur Poirot,” he said, as he
shook hands. “But I had no idea that Esmée was thinking of
consulting you about my—our trouble.”
“I was afraid you would not 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 am nearly
out of my mind with worry and anxiety about it.”
Indeed, his face looked drawn and haggard and showed only too
clearly the strain under which he was labouring.
“Well, well,” said Poirot. “Let us lunch, and over lunch 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 steak and 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.
“What exactly led you to discover that the bonds had been stolen,
Mr. Ridgeway?”
He laughed rather bitterly.
“The thing stared me in the face, Monsieur Poirot. I couldn’t have
missed it. My cabin trunk was half out from under the bunk and all
scratched and cut about where they’d tried to force the lock.”
“But I understood that it had been opened with a key?”
“That’s so. They tried to force it, but couldn’t. And, in the end,
they must have got it unlocked somehow or other.”
“Curious,” said Poirot, his eyes beginning to flicker with the
green light I knew so well. “Very curious! They waste much, much
time trying to prise it open, and then—_sapristi!_ they find that
they have the key all the time—for each of Hubbs’s locks are
unique.”
“That’s just why they couldn’t have had the key. It never left me
day or night.”
“You are sure of that?”
“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
unforceable lock?”
“Ah! there is exactly the question we are asking ourselves! I
venture 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 you did not
leave the trunk unlocked?_”
Philip Ridgeway merely looked at him, and Poirot gesticulated
apologetically.
“Ah, but these things can happen, I assure you! Very well, the
bonds were stolen from the trunk. What did the thief do with them?
How did he manage to get ashore with them?”
“Ah!” cried Ridgeway. “That’s just it. How? Word was passed to the
Customs authorities, and every soul that left the ship was gone
over with a toothcomb!”
“And the bonds, I gather, made a bulky package?”
“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.”
“Not by wireless, but did any tug come alongside?”
“Only the official ones, and that was after the alarm was given
when every one was on the look-out. I was watching out myself for
their being passed over to some one 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.”
Ridgeway produced a card and scribbled a few words on it.
“Send this in and my uncle will see you at once.”
Poirot thanked him, bade farewell to Miss Farquhar, and together
we started out for Threadneedle Street and the head office of the
London and Scottish Bank. On production of Ridgeway’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. Vavasour had a short white beard, Mr. Shaw was clean shaven.
“I understand you are strictly a private inquiry agent?” said Mr.
Vavasour. “Quite so, quite so. We have, of course, placed ourselves
in the hands of Scotland Yard. Inspector McNeil has charge of 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 Hubbs’s?”
“I ordered it myself,” said Mr. Shaw. “I would not trust to any
clerk in the matter. As to the keys, Mr. Ridgeway had one, 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. Vavasour. “I think I am correct
in saying that they have remained in the safe where we placed them
on the 23rd,” said Mr. Vavasour. “My colleague was unfortunately
taken ill a fortnight ago—in fact on the very day that Philip left
us. He has only just recovered.”
“Severe bronchitis is no joke to a man of my age,” said Mr. Shaw
ruefully. “But I am afraid Mr. Vavasour has suffered from the hard
work entailed by my absence, especially with this unexpected worry
coming on top of everything.”
Poirot asked a few more questions. I judged that he was endeavouring
to gauge the exact amount of intimacy between uncle and nephew.
Mr. Vavasour’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. Finally we were politely bowed out.
“I am disappointed,” said Poirot, as we emerged into the street.
“You hoped to discover more? They are such stodgy old men.”
“It is not their stodginess 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?”
“You know who stole the bonds?”
“I do.”
“But then—we must—why——”
“Do not confuse and fluster yourself, Hastings. 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 Hercule Poirot the case is
perfectly clear, but for the benefit of others, not so greatly
gifted by the good God—the Inspector McNeil, 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!”
“Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, 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 us speeding to Liverpool in a first-class carriage of
the L. & N.W.R. 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 transatlantic
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 elderly 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 Ridgeway.
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.
“No, indeed, sir, he was one of the last off the boat.”
I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He
thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our
departure.
“It’s all very well,” I remarked heatedly, “but that last answer
must have damped your precious theory, grin as you please!”
“As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the
contrary, the coping-stone of my theory.”