Whereupon we began a systematic search of the entire place. But after several hours’ ransacking of the house, our search had been unavailing. I saw symptoms of anger gathering on Poirot’s face.
‘Ah, sapristi, is Hercule Poirot to be beaten? Never! Let us be calm. Let us reflect. Let us reason. Let us—enfin!—employ our little grey cells!’
He paused for some moments, bending his brows in concentration; then the green light I knew so well stole into his eyes.
‘I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!’
‘The kitchen,’ I cried. ‘But that’s impossible. The servants!’
‘Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!’
I followed him, completely sceptical, and watched whilst he dived into bread-bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas-oven. In the end, tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there, and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search, noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.
To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coal-bin, to the utter ruin of his neat light suit. He made a grimace.
‘But yes, my friend, it is against all my instincts so to ruin my appearance, but what will you?’
‘But Lavington can’t have buried it under the coal?’
‘If you would use your eyes, you would see that it is not the coal that I examine.’
I then saw on a shelf behind the coal-bunker some logs of wood were piled. Poirot was dexterously taking them down one by one. Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation.
‘Your knife, Hastings!’
I handed it to him. He appeared to inset it in the wood, and suddenly the log split in two. It had been neatly sawn in half and a cavity hollowed out in the centre. From this cavity Poirot took a little wooden box of Chinese make.
‘Well done!’ I cried, carried out of myself.
‘Gently, Hastings! Do not raise your voice too much. Come, let us be off, before the daylight is upon us.’
Slipping the box into his pocket, he leaped lightly out of the coal-bunker, brushed himself down as well as he could, and leaving the house by the same way as we had come, we walked rapidly in the direction of London.
‘But what an extraordinary place!’ I expostulated. ‘Anyone might have used the log.’
‘In July, Hastings? And it was at the bottom of the pile—a very ingenious hiding-place. Ah, here is a taxi! Now for home, a wash, and a refreshing sleep.’
IV
After the excitement of the night, I slept late. When I finally strolled into our sitting-room just before one o’clock, I was surprised to see Poirot, leaning back in an armchair, the Chinese box open beside him, calmly reading the letter he had taken from it.
He smiled at me affectionately, and tapped the sheet he held.
‘She was right, the Lady Millicent; never would the Duke have pardoned this letter! It contains some of the most extravagant terms of affection I have ever come across.’
‘Really, Poirot,’ I said, rather disgustedly, ‘I don’t think you should have read the letter. ‘That’s the sort of thing that isn’t done.’
‘It is done by Hercule Poirot,’ replied my friend imperturbably.
‘And another thing,’ I said. ‘I don’t think using Japp’s official card yesterday was quite playing the game.’
‘But I was not playing a game, Hastings. I was conducting a case.’
I shrugged my shoulders. One can’t argue with a point of view.
‘A step on the stairs,’ said Poirot. ‘That will be Lady Millicent.’
Our fair client came in with an anxious expression on her face which changed to one of delight on seeing the letter and box which Poirot held up.
‘Oh, M. Poirot. How wonderful of you! How did you do it?’
‘By rather reprehensible methods, milady. But Mr Lavington will not prosecute. This is your letter, is it not?’