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 represented 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.’
We carried out this programme. Poor Mary Durrant was terribly upset, fearing her aunt would blame her.
‘Which she probably will,’ observed Poirot, as we set out for the Seaside Hotel where Mr Wood was staying. ‘And with perfect justice. The idea of leaving five hundred pounds’ worth of valuables in a suitcase and going to lunch! All the same, mon ami, there are one or two curious points about the case. That despatch box, for instance, why was it forced?’
‘To get out the miniatures.’
‘But was not that a foolishness? Say our thief is tampering with the luggage at lunch-time under the pretext of getting out his own. Surely it is much simpler to open the suitcase, transfer the despatch case unopened to his own suitcase, and get away, than to waste the time forcing the lock?’
‘He had to make sure the miniatures were inside.’
Poirot did not look convinced, but, as we were just being shown into Mr Wood’s suite, we had no time for more discussion.
I took an immediate dislike to Mr Baker Wood.
He was a large vulgar man, very much overdressed and wearing a diamond solitaire ring. He was blustering and noisy.
Of course, he’d not suspected anything amiss. Why should he? The woman said she had the miniatures all right. Very fine specimens, too! Had he the numbers of the notes? No, he hadn’t. And who was Mr—er—Poirot, anyway, to come asking him all these questions?
‘I will not ask you anything more, monsieur, except for one thing. A description of the woman who called upon you. Was she young and pretty?’
‘No, sir, she was not. Most emphatically not. A tall woman, middle-aged, grey hair, blotchy complexion and a budding moustache. A siren? Not on your life.’
‘Poirot,’ I cried, as we took our departure. ‘A moustache. Did you hear?’
‘I have the use of my ears, thank you, Hastings!’
‘But what a very unpleasant man.’
‘He has not the charming manner, no.’
‘Well, we ought to get the thief all right,’ I remarked. ‘We can identify him.’
‘You are of such a naïve simplicity, Hastings. Do you not know that there is such a thing as an alibi?’
‘You think he will have an alibi?’
Poirot replied unexpectedly: ‘I sincerely hope so.’
‘The trouble with you is,’ I said, ‘that you like a thing to be difficult.’
‘Quite right, mon ami. I do not like—how do you say it—the bird who sits!’
Poirot’s prophecy was fully justified. Our travelling companion in the brown suit turned out to be a Mr Norton Kane. He had gone straight to the George Hotel at Monkhampton and had been there during the afternoon. The only evidence against him was that of Miss Durrant who declared that she had seen him getting out his luggage from the car while we were at lunch.
‘Which in itself is not a suspicious act,’ said Poirot meditatively.
After that remark, he lapsed into silence and refused to discuss the matter any further, saying when I pressed him, that he was thinking of moustaches in general, and that I should be well advised to do the same.
I discovered, however, that he had asked Joseph Aarons—with whom he spent the evening—to give him every detail possible about Mr Baker Wood. As both men were staying at the same hotel, there was a chance of gleaning some stray crumbs of information. Whatever Poirot learned, he kept to himself, however.