ABSCONDING BANK CLERK DISAPPEARS WITH FI17TY THOUSAND POUNDS’ WORTH OF NEGOTIABLE SECURITIES, I read.
HUSBAND PUTS HIS HEAD IN GAS-OVEN. UNHAPPY HOME LI17.
MISSING TYPIST. PRETTY OIRL O17 TWENTY-ONE. WHEI IS EDNA FIELD?
‘There you are, Poirot, plenty to choose from. An absconding bank clerk, a mysterious suicide, a missing typist – which will you have?’ My friend was in a placid mood. He quietly shook his head.
‘I am not greatly attracted to any of them, mon ant/. Today I feel inclined for the life of ease. It would have to be a very interesting problem to tempt me from my chair. See you, I have affairs of importance of my own to attend to.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘My wardrobe, Hastings. If I mistake not, there is on my new grey suit the spot of grease- only the unique spot, but it is sufficient to trouble me. Then there is my winter overcoat – I must lay him aside in the powder of Keatings. And I think – yes, I think – the moment is ripe for the trimmings of my moustaches – and afterwards I must apply the pomade.’ ‘Well,’ I said, strolling to the window, ‘I doubt if you’ll be able to carry out this delirious programme. That was a ring at the bell.
You have a client.’
‘Unless the affair is one of national importance, I touch it not,’ declared Poirot with dignity.
A moment later our privacy was invaded by a stout red-faced lady who panted audibly as a result of her rapid ascent of the stairs.
‘You’re M. Poirot?’ she demanded, as she sank into a chair.
‘I am Hercule Poirot, yes, madame.’
‘You’re not a bit like what I thought you’d be,’ said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour. ‘Did you pay for the bit in the paper saying what a clever detective you were, or did they put it in themselves?’
‘Madamel’ said Poirot, drawing himself up.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, but you know what these papers are nowadays. You begin reading a nice article “What a bride said to her plain unmarried friend”, and it’s all about a simple thing you buy at the chemist’s and shampoo your hair with. Nothing but puff. But no offence taken, I hope? I’ll tell you what I want you to do for me. I want you to find my cook.’
Poirot stared at her; for once his ready tongue failed him. I turned aside to hide the broadening smile I could not control.
‘It’s all this wicked dole,’ continued the lady. ‘Putting ideas into servants’ heads, wanting to be typists and what nots. Stop the dole, that’s what I say. I’d like to know what my servants have to complain of – afternoon and evening off a week, alternate Sundays, washing put out, same food as we have – and never a bit of margarine in the house, nothing but the very best butter.’
She paused for want of breath and Poirot seized his opportunity.
He spoke in his haughtiest manner rising to his feet as he did so.
‘I fear you are making a mistake, madame. I am not holding an inquiry into the conditions of domestic service. I am a private detective.’
‘I know that,’ said our visitor. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted you to find my cook for me? Walked out of the house on Wednesday, without so much as a word to me, and never came back.’
‘I am sorry, madame, but I do not touch’this particular kind of business. I wish you good morning.’
Our visitor snorted with indignation.
‘That’s it, is it, my fine fellow? Too proud, eh? Only deal with Government secrets and countesses’ jewels? Let me tell you a servant’s every bit as important as a tiara to a woman in my position. We can’t all be fine ladies going out in our motors with our diamonds and our pearls. A good cook’s a good cook – and when you lose her, it’s as much to you as her pearls are to some fine lady.’
For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot’s dignity and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.