Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of
Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting
his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the
cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing,
rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on
the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The
kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it
contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s
palate than what he described as “your English poison.” A sharp
“rat-tat” sounded below, and a few minutes afterwards Japp entered
briskly.
“Hope I’m not late,” he said as he greeted us. “To tell the truth,
I was yarning with Miller, the man who’s in charge of the Davenheim
case.”
I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been
full of the strange disappearance of Mr. Davenheim, senior partner
of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On
Saturday last he had walked out of his house, and had never been
seen since. I looked forward to extracting some interesting details
from Japp.
“I should have thought,” I remarked, “that it would be almost
impossible for anyone to ‘disappear’ nowadays.”
Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch,
and said sharply:
“Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by ‘disappear’? To which
class of disappearance are you referring?”
“Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?” I laughed.
Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at us both.
“But certainly they are! They fall into three categories: First,
and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much
abused ‘loss of memory’ case—rare, but occasionally genuine. Third,
murder, and a more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you
refer to all three as impossible of execution?”
“Very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory,
but some one would be sure to recognize you—especially in the case
of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then ‘bodies’ can’t be made to
vanish into thin air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in
lonely places, or in trunks. Murder will out. In the same way, the
absconding clerk, or the domestic defaulter, is bound to be run
down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He can be headed off
from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are watched;
and, as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance
will be known to every one who reads a daily newspaper. He’s up
against civilization.”
“_Mon ami_,” said Poirot, “you make one error. You do not allow
for the fact that a man who had decided to make away with another
man—or with himself in a figurative sense—might be that rare
machine, a man of method. He might bring intelligence, talent, a
careful calculation of detail to the task; and then I do not see
why he should not be successful in baffling the police force.”
“But not _you_, I suppose?” said Japp good-humouredly, winking at
me. “He couldn’t baffle _you_, eh, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot endeavoured, with a marked lack of success, to look modest.
“Me, also! Why not? It is true that I approach such problems with
an exact science, a mathematical precision, which seems, alas, only
too rare in the new generation of detectives!”
Japp grinned more widely.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Miller, the man who’s on this case, is
a smart chap. You may be very sure he won’t overlook a footprint,
or a cigar-ash, or a crumb even. He’s got eyes that see everything.”
“So, _mon ami_,” said Poirot, “has the London sparrow. But all the
same, I should not ask the little brown bird to solve the problem
of Mr. Davenheim.”
“Come now, monsieur, you’re not going to run down the value of
details as clues?”
“By no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger
is they may assume undue importance. Most details are insignificant;
one or two are vital. It is the brain, the little grey cells”—he
tapped his forehead—“on which one must rely. The senses mislead.
One must seek the truth within—not without.”
“You don’t mean to say, Monsieur Poirot, that you would undertake
to solve a case without moving from your chair, do you?”
“That is exactly what I do mean—granted the facts were placed
before me. I regard myself as a consulting specialist.”
Japp slapped his knee. “Hanged if I don’t take you at your word.
Bet you a fiver that you can’t lay your hand—or rather tell me
where to lay my hand—on Mr. Davenheim, dead or alive, before a week
is out.”
Poirot considered. “_Eh bien, mon ami_, I accept. _Le sport_, it
is the passion of you English. Now—the facts.”
“On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr. Davenheim took the
12.40 train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country
place, The Cedars, is situated. After lunch, he strolled round the
grounds, and gave various directions to the gardeners. Everybody
agrees that his manner was absolutely normal and as usual. After
tea he put his head into his wife’s boudoir, saying that he was
going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added
that he was expecting a Mr. Lowen, on business. If he should come
before he himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and
asked to wait. Mr. Davenheim then left the house by the front door,
passed leisurely down the drive, and out at the gate, and—was never
seen again. From that hour, he vanished completely.”
“Pretty—very pretty—altogether a charming little problem,” murmured
Poirot. “Proceed, my good friend.”
“About a quarter of an hour later a tall, dark man with a thick
black moustache rang the front-door bell, and explained that he
had an appointment with Mr. Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen,
and in accordance with the banker’s instructions was shown into
the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr. Davenheim did not return.
Finally Mr. Lowen rang the bell, and explained that he was unable
to wait any longer, as he must catch his train back to town. Mrs.
Davenheim apologized for her husband’s absence, which seemed
unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor.
Mr. Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure.
“Well, as every one knows, Mr. Davenheim did not return. Early on
Sunday morning the police were communicated with, but could make
neither head nor tail of the matter. Mr. Davenheim seemed literally
to have vanished into thin air. He had not been to the post office;
nor had he been seen passing through the village. At the station
they were positive he had not departed by any train. His own motor
had not left the garage. If he had hired a car to meet him in some
lonely spot, it seems almost certain that by this time, in view of
the large reward offered for information, the driver of it would
have come forward to tell what he knew. True, there was a small
race-meeting at Entfield, five miles away, and if he had walked to
that station he might have passed unnoticed in the crowd. But since
then his photograph and a full description of him have been
circulated in every newspaper, and nobody has been able to give
any news of him. We have, of course, received many letters from
all over England, but each clue, so far, has ended in disappointment.
“On Monday morning a further sensational discovery came to light.
Behind a portière in Mr. Davenheim’s study stands a safe, and that
safe had been broken into and rifled. The windows were fastened
securely on the inside, which seems to put an ordinary burglary
out of court, unless, of course, an accomplice within the house
fastened them again afterwards. On the other hand, Sunday having
intervened, and the household being in a state of chaos, it is
likely that the burglary was committed on the Saturday, and remained
undetected until Monday.”
“_Précisément_,” said Poirot dryly. “Well, is he arrested, _ce
pauvre M. Lowen_?”
Japp grinned. “Not yet. But he’s under pretty close supervision.”
Poirot nodded. “What was taken from the safe? Have you any idea?”
“We’ve been going into that with the junior partner of the firm
and Mrs. Davenheim. Apparently there was a considerable amount in
bearer bonds, and a very large sum in notes, owing to some large
transaction having been just carried through. There was also a
small fortune in jewellery. All Mrs. Davenheim’s jewels were kept
in the safe. The purchasing of them had become a passion with her
husband of late years, and hardly a month passed that he did not
make her a present of some rare and costly gem.”
“Altogether a good haul,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Now, what
about Lowen? Is it known what his business was with Davenheim that
evening?”
“Well, the two men were apparently not on very good terms. Lowen
is a speculator in quite a small way. Nevertheless, he has been
able once or twice to score a _coup_ off Davenheim in the market,
though it seems they seldom or never actually met. It was a matter
concerning some South American shares which led the banker to make
his appointment.”
“Had Davenheim interests in South America, then?”
“I believe so. Mrs. Davenheim happened to mention that he spent
all last autumn in Buenos Ayres.”
“Any trouble in his home life? Were the husband and wife on good
terms?”
“I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful.
Mrs. Davenheim is a pleasant, rather unintelligent woman. Quite a
nonentity, I think.”
“Then we must not look for the solution of the mystery there. Had
he any enemies?”
“He had plenty of financial rivals, and no doubt there are many
people whom he has got the better of who bear him no particular
good-will. But there was no one likely to make away with him—and,
if they had, where is the body?”
“Exactly. As Hastings says, bodies have a habit of coming to light
with fatal persistency.”
“By the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going round
to the side of the house toward the rose-garden. The long French
window of the study opens on to the rose-garden, and Mr. Davenheim
frequently entered and left the house that way. But the man was a
good way off, at work on some cucumber frames, and cannot even say
whether it was the figure of his master or not. Also, he cannot
fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been before six, as
the gardeners cease work at that time.”
“And Mr. Davenheim left the house?”
“About half-past five or thereabouts.”
“What lies beyond the rose-garden?”
“A lake.”
“With a boathouse?”
“Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you’re thinking
of suicide, Monsieur Poirot? Well, I don’t mind telling you that
Miller’s going down to-morrow expressly to see that piece of water
dragged. That’s the kind of man he is!”
Poirot smiled faintly, and turned to me. “Hastings, I pray you,
hand me that copy of the _Daily Megaphone_. If I remember rightly,
there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man.”
I rose, and found the sheet required. Poirot studied the features
attentively.
“H’m!” he murmured. “Wears his hair rather long and wavy, full
moustache and pointed beard, bushy eyebrows. Eyes dark?”
“Yes.”
“Hair and beard turning grey?”
The detective nodded. “Well, Monsieur Poirot, what have you got to
say to it all? Clear as daylight, eh?”
“On the contrary, most obscure.”
The Scotland Yard man looked pleased.
“Which gives me great hopes of solving it,” finished Poirot
placidly.
“Eh?”
“I find it a good sign when a case is obscure. If a thing is clear
as daylight—_eh bien_, mistrust it! Some one has made it so.”
Japp shook his head almost pityingly. “Well, each to their fancy.
But it’s not a bad thing to see your way clear ahead.”
“I do not see,” murmured Poirot. “I shut my eyes—and think.”
Japp sighed. “Well, you’ve got a clear week to think in.”
“And you will bring me any fresh developments that arise—the result
of the labours of the hard-working and lynx-eyed Inspector Miller,
for instance?”
“Certainly. That’s in the bargain.”
“Seems a shame, doesn’t it?” said Japp to me as I accompanied him
to the door. “Like robbing a child!”
I could not help agreeing with a smile. I was still smiling as I
re-entered the room.
“_Eh bien!_” said Poirot immediately. “You make fun of Papa Poirot,
is it not so?” He shook his finger at me. “You do not trust his
grey cells? Ah, do not be confused! Let us discuss this little
problem—incomplete as yet, I admit, but already showing one or two
points of interest.”
“The lake!” I said significantly.
“And even more than the lake, the boathouse!”
I looked sidewise at Poirot. He was smiling in his most inscrutable
fashion. I felt that, for the moment, it would be quite useless to
question him further.
We heard nothing of Japp until the following evening, when he
walked in about nine o’clock. I saw at once by his expression that
he was bursting with news of some kind.
“_Eh bien_, my friend,” remarked Poirot. “All goes well? But do
not tell me that you have discovered the body of Mr. Davenheim in
your lake, because I shall not believe you.”
“We haven’t found the body, but we did find his _clothes_—the
identical clothes he was wearing that day. What do you say to
that?”
“Any other clothes missing from the house?”
“No, his valet is quite positive on that point. The rest of his
wardrobe is intact. There’s more. We’ve arrested Lowen. One of the
maids, whose business it is to fasten the bedroom windows, declares
that she saw Lowen coming _towards_ the study through the
rose-garden about a quarter past six. That would be about ten
minutes before he left the house.”
“What does he himself say to that?”
“Denied first of all that he had ever left the study. But the maid
was positive, and he pretended afterwards that he had forgotten
just stepping out of the window to examine an unusual species of
rose. Rather a weak story! And there’s fresh evidence against him
come to light. Mr. Davenheim always wore a thick gold ring set with
a solitaire diamond on the little finger of his right hand. Well,
that ring was pawned in London on Saturday night by a man called
Billy Kellett! He’s already known to the police—did three months
last autumn for lifting an old gentleman’s watch. It seems he tried
to pawn the ring at no less than five different places, succeeded
at the last one, got gloriously drunk on the proceeds, assaulted
a policeman, and was run in in consequence. I went to Bow Street
with Miller and saw him. He’s sober enough now, and I don’t mind
admitting we pretty well frightened the life out of him, hinting
he might be charged with murder. This is his yarn, and a very queer
one it is.
“He was at Entfield races on Saturday, though I dare say scarfpins
was his line of business, rather than betting. Anyway, he had a
bad day, and was down on his luck. He was tramping along the road
to Chingside, and sat down in a ditch to rest just before he got
into the village. A few minutes later he noticed a man coming along
the road to the village, ‘dark-complexioned gent, with a big
moustache, one of them city toffs,’ is his description of the man.
“Kellett was half concealed from the road by a heap of stones. Just
before he got abreast of him, the man looked quickly up and down
the road, and seeing it apparently deserted he took a small object
from his pocket and threw it over the hedge. Then he went on
towards the station. Now, the object he had thrown over the hedge
had fallen with a slight ‘chink’ which aroused the curiosity of
the human derelict in the ditch. He investigated and, after a short
search, discovered the ring! That is Kellett’s story. It’s only
fair to say that Lowen denies it utterly, and of course the word
of a man like Kellett can’t be relied upon in the slightest. It’s
within the bounds of possibility that he met Davenheim in the lane
and robbed and murdered him.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Very improbable, _mon ami_. He had no means of disposing of the
body. It would have been found by now. Secondly, the open way in
which he pawned the ring makes it unlikely that he did murder to
get it. Thirdly, your sneak-thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly,
as he has been in prison since Saturday, it would be too much of
a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a description of
Lowen.”
Japp nodded. “I don’t say you’re not right. But all the same, you
won’t get a jury to take much note of a jailbird’s evidence. What
seems odd to me is that Lowen couldn’t find a cleverer way of
disposing of the ring.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “Well, after all, if it were found
in the neighbourhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself
had dropped it.”
“But why remove it from the body at all?” I cried.
“There might be a reason for that,” said Japp. “Do you know that
just beyond the lake, a little gate leads out on to the hill, and
not three minutes’ walk brings you to—what do you think?—a _lime
kiln_.”
“Good heavens!” I cried. “You mean that the lime which destroyed
the body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring?”
“Exactly.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that that explains everything. What a
horrible crime!”
By common consent we both turned and looked at Poirot. He seemed
lost in reflection, his brow knitted, as though with some supreme
mental effort. I felt that at last his keen intellect was asserting
itself. What would his first words be? We were not long left in
doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude relaxed, and
turning to Japp, he asked:
“Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. and Mrs. Davenheim
occupied the same bedroom?”
The question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment
we both stared in silence. Then Japp burst into a laugh. “Good
Lord, Monsieur Poirot, I thought you were coming out with something
startling. As to your question, I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You could find out?” asked Poirot with curious persistence.
“Oh, certainly—if you _really_ want to know.”
“_Merci, mon ami_. I should be obliged if you would make a point
of it.”
Japp stared at him a few minutes longer, but Poirot seemed to have
forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me, and
murmuring, “Poor old fellow! War’s been too much for him!” gently
withdrew from the room.
As Poirot still seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper,
and amused myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend’s voice
aroused me. He had come out of his reverie, and was looking brisk
and alert.
“_Que faites-vous là, mon ami?_”
“I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of
interest in this affair.”
“You become methodical—at last!” said Poirot approvingly.