Mary Durrant, after various interviews with the police, had returned to Ebermouth by an early morning train. We lunched with Joseph Aarons, and after lunch, Poirot announced to me that he had settled the theatrical agent’s problem satisfactorily, and that we could return to Ebermouth as soon as we liked. ‘But not by road, mon ami; we go by rail this time.’
‘Are you afraid of having your pocket picked, or of meeting another damsel in distress?’
‘Both those affairs, Hastings, might happen to me on the train. No, I am in haste to be back in Ebermouth, because I want to proceed with our case.’
‘Our case?’
‘But, yes, my friend. Mademoiselle Durrant appealed to me to help her. Because the matter is now in the hands of the police, it does not follow that I am free to wash my hands of it. I came here to oblige an old friend, but it shall never be said of Hercule Poirot that he deserted a stranger in need!’ And he drew himself up grandiloquently.
‘I think you were interested before that,’ I said shrewdly. ‘In the office of cars, when you first caught sight of that young man, though what drew your attention to him I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you, Hastings? You should. Well, well, that must remain my little secret.’
We had a short conversation with the police inspector in charge of the case before leaving. He had interviewed Mr Norton Kane, and told Poirot in confidence that the young man’s manner had not impressed him favourably. He had blustered, denied, and contradicted himself.
‘But just how the trick was done, I don’t know,’ he confessed. ‘He could have handed the stuff to a confederate who pushed off at once in a fast car. But that’s just theory. We’ve got to find the car and the confederate and pin the thing down.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
‘Do you think that was how it was done?’ I asked him, as we were seated in the train.
‘No, my friend, that was not how it was done. It was cleverer than that.’
‘Won’t you tell me?’
‘Not yet. You know—it is my weakness—I like to keep my little secrets till the end.’
‘Is the end going to be soon?’
‘Very soon now.’
We arrived in Ebermouth a little after six and Poirot drove at once to the shop which bore the name ‘Elizabeth Penn’. The establishment was closed, but Poirot rang the bell, and presently Mary herself opened the door, and expressed surprise and delight at seeing us.
‘Please come in and see my aunt,’ she said.
She led us into a back room. An elderly lady came forward to meet us; she had white hair and looked rather like a miniature herself with her pink-and-white skin and her blue eyes. Round her rather bent shoulders she wore a cape of priceless old lace.
‘Is this the great Monsieur Poirot?’ she asked in a low charming voice. ‘Mary has been telling me. I could hardly believe it. And you will really help us in our trouble. You will advise us?’
Poirot looked at her for a moment, then bowed.
‘Mademoiselle Penn—the effect is charming. But you should really grow a moustache.’
Miss Penn gave a gasp and drew back.
‘You were absent from business yesterday, were you not?’
‘I was here in the morning. Later I had a bad headache and went directly home.’
‘Not home, mademoiselle. For your headache you tried the change of air, did you not? The air of Charlock Bay is very bracing, I believe.’
He took me by the arm and drew me towards the door. He paused there and spoke over his shoulder.
‘You comprehend, I know everything. This little—farce—it must cease.’
There was a menace in his tone. Miss Penn, her face ghastly white, nodded mutely. Poirot turned to the girl.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said gently, ‘you are young and charming. But participating in these little affairs will lead to that youth and charm being hidden behind prison walls—and I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that will be a pity.’
Then he stepped out into the street and I followed him, bewildered.
‘From the first, mon ami, I was interested. When that young man booked his place as far as Monkhampton only, I saw the girl’s attention suddenly riveted on him. Now why? He was not of the type to make a woman look at him for himself alone. When we started on the coach, I had a feeling that something would happen. Who saw the young man tampering with the luggage? Mademoiselle and mademoiselle only, and remember she chose that seat—a seat facing the window—a most unfeminine choice.