“Why,” I exclaimed, “it’s Mrs. Opalsen.”
“You know her?”
“Slightly. Her husband is a rich stockbroker who made a fortune in
the recent Oil boom.”
After dinner we ran across the Opalsens 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.
“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. You are interested in precious stones?”
“I have had a good deal to do with them one time and another,
madame. 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. Opalsen listened with
bated breath.
“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, madame,” 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.
“Madame your wife is so amiable as to insist on showing me her
pearl necklace,” explained the latter.
“Oh, the pearls!” Opalsen smiled in a satisfied fashion. “Well,
they _are_ worth seeing. Cost a pretty penny too! Still, the
money’s there all right; I could get what I paid for them any
day—perhaps more. May have to, too, if things go on as they are
now. Money’s confoundedly tight in the City. All this infernal
E.P.D.” 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? I’ll come at once. Not taken 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 Opalsens 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.”
“Why?”
“Because, my friend, something has happened.”
“What sort of thing? How do you know?” I asked curiously.
Poirot smiled.
“A few moments ago the manager came hurriedly out of his office
and ran upstairs. 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 waiters are _distrait_; and
to make a waiter _distrait_——” 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 come 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.
“Mr. Opalsen’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 Opalsens’ 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.
Opalsen’s bedroom, and in the centre of it, lying back in an
arm-chair, 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.
Opalsen was striding up and down angrily. The two police officials
stood in the middle of the room, one with a notebook in hand. An
hotel chambermaid, looking frightened to death, stood by the
fire-place; and on the other side of the room a Frenchwoman,
obviously Mrs. Opalsen’s maid, was weeping and wringing her hands,
with an intensity of grief that rivalled that of her mistress.
Into this pandemonium stepped Poirot, neat and smiling. Immediately,
with an energy surprising in one of her bulk, Mrs. Opalsen 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’ve
a feeling that if you can’t get my pearls back for me nobody can.”
“Calm yourself, I pray of you, madame.” Poirot patted her hand
soothingly. “Reassure yourself. All will be well. Hercule Poirot
will aid you!”
Mr. Opalsen turned to the police inspector.
“There will be no objection to my—er—calling in this gentleman, I
suppose?”
“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. Opalsen looked helplessly at Poirot. He led her back to her
chair.
“Seat yourself, madame, and recount to us the whole history without
agitating yourself.”
Thus abjured, Mrs. Opalsen dried her eyes gingerly, and began.
“I came upstairs after dinner to fetch my pearls for Mr. Poirot
here to see. The chambermaid and Célestine were both in the room
as usual——”
“Excuse me, madame, but what do you mean by ‘as usual’?”
Mr. Opalsen explained.
“I make it a rule that no one is to come into this room unless
Célestine, the maid, is there also. The chambermaid does the room
in the morning while Célestine 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. Opalsen, “I came up. I went
to the drawer here,”—she indicated the bottom right-hand drawer of
the knee-hole dressing-table—“took out my jewel-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.
“They were there when I went down to dinner.”
“You are sure?”
“Quite sure. I was uncertain whether to wear them or not, but in
the end I decided on the emeralds, and put them back in the
jewel-case.”
“Who locked up the jewel-case?”
“I did. I wear the key on a chain round my neck.” She held it up
as she spoke.
The inspector examined it, and shrugged his shoulders.
“The thief must have had a duplicate key. No difficult matter. The
lock is quite a simple one. What did you do after you’d locked the
jewel-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 maid remains in the room till I come up, so
there’s no need.”
The inspector’s face grew graver.
“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, Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and,
flinging herself upon Poirot, poured out a torrent of incoherent
French.
The suggestion was infamous! That she should be suspected of
robbing Madame! The police were well known to be of a stupidity
incredible! But Monsieur, who was a Frenchman—
“A Belgian,” interjected Poirot, but Célestine paid no attention
to the correction.
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 search 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,
Célestine had interlarded it with a wealth of gesture, and the
chambermaid realized at least a part of her meaning. She reddened
angrily.
“If that foreign woman’s saying I took the pearls, it’s a lie!”
she declared heatedly. “I never so much as saw them.”
“Search her!” screamed the other. “You will find it is as I say.”
“You’re a liar—do you hear?” said the chambermaid, advancing upon
her. “Stole ’em yourself, and want to put it on me. Why, I was only
in the room about three minutes before the lady come 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 Célestine. “Is that
true? Didn’t you leave the room at all?”
“I did not actually leave her alone,” admitted Célestine reluctantly,
“but I went into my own room through the door here twice—once to
fetch a reel of cotton, and once for my scissors. She must have
done it then.”
“You wasn’t gone a minute,” retorted the chambermaid angrily. “Just
popped out and in again. I’d be glad if the police _would_ search
me. _I’ve 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. “That’s 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
round the room, the main features of which I have made clear by a
sketch.
[A sketch of the bedroom, adjoining maid's room, and corridor.]
“Where does that door lead?” he inquired, nodding his head towards
the one by the window.
“Into 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.
“And again—nothing. Not even a balcony outside.”
“Even if there were,” said the inspector impatiently, “I don’t see
how that would help us, if the maid never left the room.”
“_Évidemment_,” said Poirot, not disconcerted. “As Mademoiselle is
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.
“I should hope not, indeed,” said the chambermaid virtuously. “And
that French hussy ought to be ashamed of herself taking away an
honest girl’s character!”
“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.
“Going to search _her_?” she demanded, pointing at Célestine.
“Yes, yes!” He shut the door on her and turned the key.
Célestine 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.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come along with me all the
same, miss.” He turned to Mrs. Opalsen. “I’m sorry, madam, but all
the evidence points that way. If she’s not got them on her, they’re
hidden somewhere about the room.”
Célestine 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.
“_Si, si, mon enfant_—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.”
“Depends on what it is,” replied the police officer non-committally.
Poirot addressed Célestine once more.
“You have told us that you went into your room to fetch a reel of
cotton. Whereabouts was it?”
“On the top of the chest of drawers, monsieur.”
“And the scissors?”
“They also.”
“Would it be troubling you too much, mademoiselle, to ask you to
repeat those two actions? You were sitting here with your work,
you say?”
Célestine 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, mademoiselle.”
At the conclusion of the second performance, he made a note in his
pocket-book, and returned the watch to his pocket.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. And you, monsieur,”—he bowed to the
inspector—“for your courtesy.”
The inspector seemed somewhat entertained by this excessive
politeness. Célestine departed in a flood of tears, accompanied by
the woman and the plain-clothes official.
Then, with a brief apology to Mrs. Opalsen, the inspector set to
work to ransack the room. He pulled out drawers, opened cupboards,
completely unmade the bed, and tapped the floor. Mr. Opalsen looked
on sceptically.
“You really think you will find them?”
“Yes, sir. It stands to reason. She hadn’t time to take them out
of the room. The lady’s discovering the robbery 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—with care. It is a family heirloom! Just now I timed
Mademoiselle’s movements—her first absence from the room was of
twelve seconds, her second of fifteen. Now observe my actions.
Madame 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, fitted the key in
the lock, opened the case, selected a piece of jewellery, 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.
“You see?” He looked round. “There would not have been time for
the chambermaid even to take the necklace out, far less hide it.”
“Then 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. Opalsen.
“This necklace—it was, without doubt, insured?”
Mr. Opalsen looked a trifle surprised at the question.
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that is so.”
“But what does that matter?” broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. “It’s
my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same.”
“I comprehend, madame,” said Poirot soothingly. “I comprehend
perfectly. To _la femme_ sentiment is everything—is it not so? But
monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless
find some slight consolation in the fact.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly.
“Still——”
He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He
came in dangling something from his fingers.
With a cry, Mrs. Opalsen 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.
“Where was it?” demanded Opalsen.
“Maid’s bed. In among the springs of the wire mattress. She must
have stolen it and hidden it there before the chambermaid arrived
on the scene.”
“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, madam, 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. Opalsen frowned.
“Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Just a formality.”
“Oh, let him take it, Ed!” cried his wife. “I’d feel safer if he
did. I shouldn’t sleep a wink thinking some one else might try and
get hold of it. That wretched girl! And I would never have believed
it of her.”
“There, there, my dear, don’t take on so.”