“I give it up.”
• • • • • • •
When we were in the train, speeding towards London, Poirot wrote
busily for a few minutes, sealing up the result in an envelope.
“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 Esmée Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with
us.”
“What about Ridgeway?”
“What about him?” asked Poirot with a twinkle.
“Why, you surely don’t think—you can’t——”
“The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a
matter of fact I _did_ think. If Ridgeway had been the thief—which
was perfectly possible—the case would have been charming; a piece
of neat methodical work.”
“But not so charming for Miss Farquhar.”
“Possibly you are right. Therefore all is for the best. Now,
Hastings, let us review the case. I can see that you are dying to
do so. The sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes,
as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air. We will dismiss the thin
air theory, which is not practicable at the present stage of
science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Every
one asserts the incredibility of its being smuggled ashore——”
“Yes, but we know——”
“_You_ may know, Hastings. I do not. I take the view that, since
it seemed incredible, it _was_ incredible. Two possibilities
remain: it was hidden on board—also rather difficult—or it was
thrown overboard.”
“With a cork on it, do you mean?”
“Without a cork.”