II
‘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?’
‘Parbleu! 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.’
Mr Bernard Parker was at home. We found him reclining on some cushions, clad in an amazing dressing-gown of purple and orange. I have seldom taken a greater dislike to anyone than I did to this particular young man with his white, effeminate face and affected lisping speech.
‘Good morning, monsieur,’ said Poirot briskly. ‘I come from Mr Hardman. Yesterday, at the party, somebody has stolen all his jewels. Permit me to ask you, monsieur—is this your glove?’
Mr Parker’s mental processes did not seem very rapid. He stared at the glove, as though gathering his wits together.
‘Where did you find it?’ he asked at last.
‘Is it your glove, monsieur?’
Mr Parker appeared to make up his mind.
‘No, it isn’t,’ he declared.
‘And this cigarette case, is that yours?’
‘Certainly not. I always carry a silver one.’
‘Very well, monsieur. I go to put matters in the hands of the police.’
‘Oh, I say, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ cried Mr Parker in some concern. ‘Beastly unsympathetic people, the police. Wait a bit. I’ll go round and see old Hardman. Look here—oh, stop a minute.’
But Poirot beat a determined retreat.
‘We have given him something to think about, have we not?’ he chuckled. ‘Tomorrow we will observe what has occurred.’
But we were destined to have a reminder of the Hardman case that afternoon. Without the least warning the door flew open, and a whirlwind in human form invaded our privacy, bringing with her a swirl of sables (it was as cold as only an English June day can be) and a hat rampant with slaughtered ospreys. Countess Vera Rossakoff was a somewhat disturbing personality.
‘You are Monsieur Poirot? What is this that you have done? You accuse that poor boy! It is infamous. It is scandalous. I know him. He is a chicken, a lamb—never would he steal. He has done everything for me. Will I stand by and see him martyred and butchered?’
‘Tell me, madame, is this his cigarette case?’ Poirot held out the black moiré case.
The Countess paused for a moment while she inspected it.
‘Yes, it is his. I know it well. What of it? Did you find it in the room? We were all there; he dropped it then, I suppose. Ah, you policemen, you are worse than the Red Guards—’
‘And is this his glove?’
‘How should I know? One glove is like another. Do not try to stop me—he must be set free. His character must be cleared. You shall do it. I will sell my jewels and give you much money.’
‘Madame—’
‘It is agreed, then? No, no, do not argue. The poor boy! He came to me, the tears in his eyes. “I will save you,” I said. “I will go to this man—this ogre, this monster! Leave it to Vera.” Now it is settled, I go.’
With as little ceremony as she had come, she swept from the room, leaving an overpowering perfume of an exotic nature behind her.
‘What a woman!’ I exclaimed. ‘And what furs!’
‘Ah, yes, they were genuine enough. Could a spurious countess have real furs? My little joke, Hastings…No, she is truly Russian, I fancy. Well, well, so Master Bernard went bleating to her.’