Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie [67]
“I think so. I may, perhaps, have exaggerated a little here and there. I do exaggerate sometimes. Now Jennifer, my great friend, she’s the other way round. She can make the most exciting things sound dull.” She looked again at the shining heap. “M. Poirot, who do they really belong to?”
“It is probably very difficult to say. But they do not belong to either you or to me. We have to decide now what to do next.”
Julia looked at him in an expectant fashion.
“You leave yourself in my hands? Good.”
Hercule Poirot closed his eyes.
Suddenly he opened them and became brisk.
“It seems that this is an occasion when I cannot, as I prefer, remain in my chair. There must be order and method, but in what you tell me, there is no order and method. That is because we have here many threads. But they all converge and meet at one place, Meadowbank. Different people, with different aims, and representing different interests—all converge at Meadowbank. So, I, too, go to Meadowbank. And as for you—where is your mother?”
“Mummy’s gone in a bus to Anatolia.”
“Ah, your mother has gone in a bus to Anatolia. Il ne manquait que ça! I perceive well that she might be a friend of Mrs. Summerhayes! Tell me, did you enjoy your visit with Mrs. Summerhayes?”
“Oh yes, it was great fun. She’s got some lovely dogs.”
“The dogs, yes, I well remember.”
“They come in and out through all the windows—like in a pantomime.”
“You are so right! And the food? Did you enjoy the food?”
“Well, it was a bit peculiar sometimes,” Julia admitted.
“Peculiar, yes, indeed.”
“But Aunt Maureen makes smashing omelettes.”
“She makes smashing omelettes.” Poirot’s voice was happy. He sighed.
“Then Hercule Poirot has not lived in vain,” he said. “It was I who taught your Aunt Maureen to make an omelette.” He picked up the telephone receiver.
“We will now reassure your good schoolmistress as to your safety and announce my arrival with you at Meadowbank.”
“She knows I’m all right. I left a note saying I hadn’t been kidnapped.”
“Nevertheless, she will welcome further reassurance.”
In due course he was connected, and was informed that Miss Bulstrode was on the line.
“Ah, Miss Bulstrode? My name is Hercule Poirot. I have with me here your pupil Julia Upjohn. I propose to motor down with her immediately, and for the information of the police officer in charge of the case, a certain packet of some value has been safely deposited in the bank.”
He rang off and looked at Julia.
“You would like a sirop?” he suggested.
“Golden syrup?” Julia looked doubtful.
“No, a syrup of fruit juice. Blackcurrant, raspberry, groseille—that is, red currant?”
Julia settled for red currant.
“But the jewels aren’t in the bank,” she pointed out.
“They will be in a very short time,” said Poirot. “But for the benefit of anyone who listens in at Meadowbank, or who overhears, or who is told, it is as well to think they are already there and no longer in your possession. To obtain jewels from a bank requires time and organization. And I should very much dislike anything to happen to you, my child. I will admit that I have formed a high opinion of your courage and your resource.”
Julia looked pleased but embarrassed.
Eighteen
CONSULTATION
I
Hercule Poirot had prepared himself to beat down an insular prejudice that a headmistress might have against aged foreigners with pointed patent leather shoes and large moustaches. But he was agreeably surprised. Miss Bulstrode greeted him with cosmopolitan aplomb. She also, to his gratification, knew all about him.
“It was kind of you, M. Poirot,” she said, “to ring up so promptly and allay our anxiety. All the more so because that anxiety had hardly begun. You weren’t missed at lunch, Julia, you know,” she added, turning to the girl. “So many girls were fetched away this morning, and there were so many gaps at table, that half the school could have been missing, I think, without any apprehension being aroused. These are unusual circumstances,” she said, turning back to Poirot. “I assure you we would not be so slack normally.