Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do was to continue. But as Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he capitulated.
‘You see, Monsieur Poirot – it is well known that I am interested in antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of- which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia. She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the transaction.’ ‘I see,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘And you trust him implicitly?’ ‘I have had no reason to do otherwise.’ ‘Mr Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?’ ‘Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a questionl They are my friends, as I told you. I suspect none of them – or all of them, whichever way you like to put it.’ ‘I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess Rossakoff. It is not Mr Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr Johnston?’ ‘You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most anxious to have no scandal. Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest families in England; but it is true, it is mot unfortunately true, that her aunt, Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood, of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicamentl’
‘So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a kleptomaniac? Very interesting. You permit that I examine the safe?’
Mr Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us.
‘Even now the door does not shut properly,’ murmured Poirot, as he swung it to and fro. ‘I wonder why? Ah, what have we here?
A glove, caught in the hinge. A man’s glove.’
He held it out to Mr Hardman.
‘That’s not one of my gloves,’ the latter declared.
‘Ahal Something morel’ Poirot bent deftly and picked up a small object from the floor of the safe. It was a flat cigarette case made of black moire.
‘My cigarette casei’ cried Mr Hardman.
‘Yours? Surely not, monsieur. Those are not your initials.’
He pointed to an entwined monogram of two letters executed in platinum.
Hardman took it in his hand.
‘You are right,’ he declared. ‘It is very like mine, but the initials are different. A ‘B’ and a ‘P’. Good heavens – Parkerl’
‘It would seem so,’ said Poirot. ‘A somewhat careless young man – especially if the glove is his also. That would be a double clue, would it not?’
‘Bernard Parker!’ murmured Hardman. ‘What a reliefl Well, Monsieur Poirot, I leave it to you to recover the jewels. Place the matter in the hands of the police if you think fit – that is, if you are quite sure that it is he who is guilty.’
‘See you, my friend,’ said Poirot to me, as we left the house together, ‘he has one law for the titled, and another law for the plain, this Mr Hardman. Me, I have not yet been ennobled, so I am on the side of the plain. I have sympathy for this young man.
The whole thing was a little curious, was it not? There was Hardman suspecting Lady Runcorn; there was I, suspecting the Countess and Johnston; and all the time, the obscure Mr Parker was our man.’
‘Why did you suspect the other two?’
‘ParbleuI It is such a simple thing to be a Russian refugee or a South African millionaire. Any woman can call herself a Russian countess; anyone can buy a house in Park Lane and call himself a South African millionaire. Who is going to contradict them? But I observe that we are passing through Bury Street. Our careless young friend lives here. Let us, as you say, strike while the iron is in the fire.’