“My friend Hastings is, as you say in England, all at the seaside.
Seat yourself, and I will recount to you all the affair that has
so happily ended.”
“Ended?”
“But yes. They are arrested.”
“Who are arrested?”
“The chambermaid and the valet, _parbleu_! You did not suspect?
Not with my parting hint about the French chalk?”
“You said cabinet-makers used it.”
“Certainly they do—to make drawers slide easily. Somebody wanted
that drawer to slide in and out without any noise. Who could that
be? Obviously, only the chambermaid. The plan was so ingenious that
it did not at once leap to the eye—not even to the eye of Hercule
Poirot.
“Listen, this was how it was done. The valet was in the empty room
next door, waiting. The French maid leaves the room. Quick as a
flash the chambermaid whips open the drawer, takes out the
jewel-case, and, slipping back the bolt, passes it through the
door. The valet opens it at his leisure with the duplicate key with
which he has provided himself, extracts the necklace, and waits
his time. Célestine leaves the room again, and—pst!—in a flash the
case is passed back again and replaced in the drawer.
“Madame arrives, the theft is discovered. The chambermaid demands
to be searched, with a good deal of righteous indignation, and
leaves the room without a stain on her character. The imitation
necklace with which they have provided themselves has been concealed
in the French girl’s bed that morning by the chambermaid—a master
stroke, _ça!_”
“But what did you go to London for?”
“You remember the card?”
“Certainly. It puzzled me—and puzzles me still. I thought——”