‘We Russians, on the contrary, practise prodigality,’ she said. ‘And to do that, unfortunately, one must have money. You need not look inside. They are all there.’
Poirot arose.
‘I congratulate you, madame, on your quick intelligence and your promptitude.’
‘Ah! But since you were keeping your taxi waiting, what else could I do?’
‘You are too amiable, madame. You are remaining long in London?’
‘I am afraid no—owing to you.’
‘Accept my apologies.’
‘We shall meet again elsewhere, perhaps.’
‘I hope so.’
‘And I—do not!’ exclaimed the Countess with a laugh. ‘It is a great compliment that I pay you there—there are very few men in the world whom I fear. Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot.’
‘Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse. Ah—pardon me, I forgot! Allow me to return you your cigarette case.’
And with a bow he handed to her the little black moiré case we had found in the safe. She accepted it without any change of expression—just a lifted eyebrow and a murmured: ‘I see!’
III
‘What a woman!’ cried Poirot enthusiastically as we descended the stairs. ‘Mon Dieu, quelle femme! Not a word of argument—of protestation, of bluff! One quick glance, and she had sized up the position correctly. I tell you, Hastings, a woman who can accept defeat like that—with a careless smile—will go far! She is dangerous, she has the nerves of steel; she—’ He tripped heavily.
‘If you can manage to moderate your transports and look where you’re going, it might be as well,’ I suggested. ‘When did you first suspect the Countess?’
‘Mon ami, it was the glove and the cigarette case—the double clue, shall we say—that worried me. Bernard Parker might easily have dropped one or the other—but hardly both. Ah, no, that would have been too careless! In the same way, if someone else had placed them there to incriminate Parker, one would have been sufficient—the cigarette case or the glove—again not both. So I was forced to the conclusion that one of the two things did not belong to Parker. I imagined at first that the case was his, and that the glove was not. But when I discovered the fellow to the glove, I saw that it was the other way about. Whose, then, was the cigarette case? Clearly, it could not belong to Lady Runcorn. The initials were wrong. Mr Johnston? Only if he were here under a false name. I interviewed his secretary, and it was apparent at once that everything was clear and above board. There was no reticence about Mr Johnston’s past. The Countess, then? She was supposed to have brought jewels with her from Russia; she had only to take the stones from their settings, and it was extremely doubtful if they could ever be identified. What could be easier for her than to pick up one of Parker’s gloves from the hall that day and thrust it into the safe? But, bien sûr, she did not intend to drop her own cigarette case.’
‘But if the case was hers, why did it have “B.P.” on it? The Countess’s initials are V.R.’
Poirot smiled gently upon me.
‘Exactly, mon ami; but in the Russian alphabet, B is V and P is R.’
‘Well, you couldn’t expect me to guess that. I don’t know Russian.’
‘Neither do I, Hastings. That is why I bought my little book—and urged it on your attention.’
He sighed.
‘A remarkable woman. I have a feeling, my friend—a very decided feeling—I shall meet her again. Where, I wonder?’
The King of Clubs
I
‘Truth,’ I observed, laying aside the Daily Newsmonger, ‘is stranger than fiction!’
The remark was not, perhaps, an original one. It appeared to incense my friend. Tilting his egg-shaped head on one side, the little man carefully flicked an imaginary fleck of dust from his carefully creased trousers, and observed: ‘How profound! What a thinker is my friend Hastings!’
Without displaying any annoyance at this quite uncalled-for gibe, I tapped the sheet I had laid aside.
‘You’ve read this morning’s paper?’
‘I have. And after reading it, I folded it anew symmetrically. I did not cast it on the floor as you have done, with your so lamentable absence of order and method.’