‘Oh, come, Poirot, somebody will be sure to see.’
‘And what would they see? Somebody removing his luggage.
It would be done in an open and aboveboard manner, and it would be nobody’s business to interfere.’
‘Do you mean – Poirot, are you hinting – But that fellow in the brown suit – it was his own suitcase?’
Poirot frowned. ‘So it seems. All the same, it is curious, Hastings, that he should have not removed his suitcase before, when the car first arrived. He has not lunched here, you notice.’
‘If Miss Durrant hadn’t been sitting opposite the window, she wouldn’t have seen him,’ I said slowly.
‘And since it was his own suitcase, that would not have mattered,’ said Poirot. ‘So let us dismiss it from our thoughts, mon ami.’
Nevertheless, when we had resumed our places and were speeding along once more, he took the opportunity of giving Mary Durrant a further lecture on the dangers of indiscretion which she received meekly enough but with the air of thinking it all rather a joke.
We arrived at Charlock Bay at four o’clock and were fortunate enough to be able to get rooms at the Anchor Hotel – a charming old-world inn in one of the side streets.
Poirot had just unpacked a few necessaries and was applying a little cosmetic to his moustache preparatory to going out to call upon Joseph Aarons when there came a frenzied knocking at the door. I called ‘Come in,’ and, to my utter amazement, Mary I)urrant appeared, her face white and large tears standing in her
‘I do beg your pardon – but – but the most awful thing has happened. And you did say you were a detective?’ This to Poirot.
‘What has happened, mademoiselle?’
‘I opened my suitcase. The miniatures were in a crocodile despatch case – locked, of course. Now, lookl’
She held out a small square crocodile-covered case. The lid hung loose. Poirot took it from her. The case had been forced;
great strength must have been used. The marks were plain enough. Poirot examined it and nodded.
‘The miniatures?’ he asked, though we both knew the answer well enough.
‘Gone. They’ve been stolen. Oh, what shall I do?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘My friend is Hercule Poirot. You must have heard of him. He’ll get them back for you if anyone can.’ ‘Monsieur Poirot. The great Monsieur Poirot.’
Poirot was vain enough to be pleased at the obvious reverence in her voice. ‘Yes, my child,’ he said. ‘It is I, myself. And you can leave your little affair in my hands. I will do all that can be done.
But I fear – I much fear – that it will be too late. Tell me, was the lock of your suitcase forced also?’ She shook her head.
‘Let me see it, please.’
We went together to her room, and Poirot examined the suitcase closely. It had obviously been opened with a key.
‘Which is simple enough. These suitcase locks are all much of the same pattern. Eh bien, we must ring up the police and we must also get in touch with Mr Baker Wood as soon as possible. I will attend to that myself.’
I went with him and asked what he meant by saying it might be too late. ‘Mon chef, I said today that I was the opposite of the conjurer – that I make the disappearing things reappear – but suppose someone has been beforehand with me. You do not understand? You will in a minute.’
He disappeared into the telephone box. He came out five minutes later looking very grave. ‘It is as I feared. A lady called upon Mr Wood with the miniatures half an hour ago. She repre-sented herself as coming from Miss Elizabeth Penn. He was delighted with the miniatures and paid for them forthwith.’ ‘Half an hour ago – before we arrived here.’
Poirot smiled rather enigmatically. ‘The Speedy cars are quite speedy, but a fast motor from, say, Monkhampton would get here a good hour ahead of them at least.’
‘And what do we do now?’
‘The good Hastings – always practical. We inform the police,
do all we can for Miss Durrant, and – yes, I think decidedly, we have an interview with Mr J. Baker Wood.’