“Shall we slip away, my friend? I think our services are no longer
needed.”
Once outside, however, he hesitated, and then, much to my surprise,
he remarked:
“I should rather like to see the room next door.”
The door 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.
“_Je vous demande pardon, mon ami_. I wished 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.
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 pearls.”
“But the maid did!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why,” I stammered, “they were found—actually in her mattress.”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said Poirot impatiently. “Those were not the pearls.”
“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 hullabaloo!”
“Come!” I cried, dragging at his arm.
“Where?”
“We must tell the Opalsens at once.”
“I think not.”
“But that poor woman——”
“_Eh bien_; 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. Opalsen locked up so carefully to-night were
not the false ones, and that the 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 valets
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 derange you, but I shall be obliged if you will
unlock for me the door of Mr. Opalsen’s room.”
The woman rose willingly, and we accompanied her down the passage
again. Mr. Opalsen’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 pass-key, and we entered.
As she was about to depart Poirot detained her.
“One moment; have you ever seen among the effects of Mr. Opalsen
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.
“No, sir, I can’t say I have. But, anyway, the valet has most to
do with the gentlemen’s rooms.”
“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. Opalsen’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 insured. . . .”
“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
effected a rapid change of clothing.
“I go to London to-night,” he explained. “It is imperative.”
“What?”
“Absolutely. The real work, that of the brain (ah, those brave
little grey cells), it is done. I go to seek the confirmation. I
shall find it! Impossible to deceive Hercule 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, _mon ami_. I count on you to do
me a service—of your friendship.”
“Of course,” I said eagerly, rather ashamed of my moroseness. “What
is it?”
“The sleeve of my coat that I have taken off—will you brush it?
See you, a little white powder has clung to it. You without doubt
observed me run my finger round the drawer of the dressing-table?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You should observe my actions, my friend. Thus I obtained the
powder on my finger, and, being a little over-excited, 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 Borgias,” replied Poirot, with a twinkle.
“I see your imagination mounting. I should say it was French
chalk.”
“French chalk?”
“Yes, cabinet-makers use it to make drawers run smoothly.”