Cat Among the Pigeons - Agatha Christie [92]
Poirot nodded.
Mr. Robinson leaned forward.
“Where are they, M. Poirot?”
“I think you know where they are.”
“Well, frankly, yes. Banks are such useful institutions are they not?”
Poirot smiled.
“We needn’t beat about the bush really, need we, my dear fellow? What are you going to do about them?”
“I have been waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Shall we say—for suggestions?”
“Yes—I see.”
“You understand they do not belong to me. I would like to hand them over to the person they do belong to. But that, if I appraise the position correctly, is not so simple.”
“Governments are in such a difficult position,” said Mr. Robinson. “Vulnerable, so to speak. What with oil, and steel, and uranium, and cobalt and all the rest of it, foreign relations are a matter of the utmost delicacy. The great thing is to be able to say that Her Majesty’s Government, etc., etc., has absolutely no information on the subject.”
“But I cannot keep this important deposit at my bank indefinitely.”
“Exactly. That is why I have come to propose that you should hand it over to me.”
“Ah,” said Poirot. “Why?”
“I can give you some excellent reasons. These jewels—mercifully we are not official, we can call things by their right names—were unquestionably the personal property of the late Prince Ali Yusuf.”
“I understand that is so.”
“His Highness handed them over to Squadron Leader Robert Rawlinson with certain instructions. They were to be got out of Ramat, and they were to be delivered to me.”
“Have you proof of that?”
“Certainly.”
Mr. Robinson drew a long envelope from his pocket. Out of it he took several papers. He laid them before Poirot on the desk.
Poirot bent over them and studied them carefully.
“It seems to be as you say.”
“Well, then?”
“Do you mind if I ask a question?”
“Not at all.”
“What do you, personally, get out of this?”
Mr. Robinson looked surprised.
“My dear fellow. Money, of course. Quite a lot of money.”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
“It is a very old trade,” said Mr. Robinson. “And a lucrative one. There are quite a lot of us, a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the Arrangers behind the scenes. For kings, for presidents, for politicians, for all those, in fact, upon whom the fierce light beats, as a poet has put it. We work in with one another and remember this: we keep faith. Our profits are large but we are honest. Our services are costly—but we do render service.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “Eh bien! I agree to what you ask.”
“I can assure you that that decision will please everyone.” Mr. Robinson’s eyes just rested for a moment on Colonel Pikeaway’s letter where it lay at Poirot’s right hand.
“But just one little moment. I am human. I have curiosity. What are you going to do with these jewels?”
Mr. Robinson looked at him. Then his large yellow face creased into a smile. He leaned forward.
“I shall tell you.”
He told him.
II
Children were playing up and down the street. Their raucous cries filled the air. Mr. Robinson, alighting ponderously from his Rolls, was cannoned into by one of them.
Mr. Robinson put the child aside with a not unkindly hand and peered up at the number on the house.
No. 15. This was right. He pushed open the gate and went up the three steps to the front door. Neat white curtains at the windows, he noted, and a well-polished brass knocker. An insignificant little house in an insignificant street in an insignificant part of London, but it was well kept. It had self-respect.
The door opened. A girl of about twenty-five, pleasant looking, with a kind of fair, chocolate box prettiness, welcomed him with a smile.
“Mr. Robinson? Come in.”
She took him into the small sitting room. A television set, cretonnes of a Jacobean pattern, a cottage piano against the wall. She had on a dark skirt and a grey pullover.
“You’ll have some tea? I’ve got the kettle on.”
“Thank you, but no. I never drink tea. And I can only stay a short