Poirot investigates - Agatha Christie [18]
‘They are just recent acquaintances, I believe. But surely, Poirot, you don’t think for an instant–’
Poirot raised his hand.
‘Tout doucement, mon ami. Have I said that I think anything? All I say is–it is a curious story. And there is nothing to throw light upon it; except perhaps the lady’s name, eh, Hastings?’
‘Her name is Stella,’ I said stiffly, ‘but I don’t see–’
Poirot interrupted me with a tremendous chuckle. Something seemed to be amusing him vastly.
‘And Stella means a star, does it not? Famous!’
‘What on earth–?’
‘And stars give light! Voilà! Calm yourself, Hastings. Do not put on that air of injured dignity. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and make a few inquiries.’
I accompanied him, nothing loath. The Mansions were a handsome block of buildings in excellent repair. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself.
‘Pardon, but would you tell me if a Mr and Mrs Robinson reside here?’
The porter was a man of few words and apparently of a sour or suspicious disposition. He hardly looked at us and grunted out:
‘No 4. Second floor.’
‘I thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?’
‘Six months.’
I started forward in amazement, conscious as I did so of Poirot’s malicious grin.
‘Impossible,’ I cried. ‘You must be making a mistake.’
‘Six months.’
‘Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and fair with reddish gold hair and–’
‘That’s ’er,’ said the porter. ‘Come in the Michaelmas quarter, they did. Just six months ago.’
He appeared to lose interest in us and retreated slowly up the hall. I followed Poirot outside.
‘Eh bien, Hastings?’ my friend demanded slyly. ‘Are you so sure now that delightful women always speak the truth?’
I did not reply.
Poirot had steered his way into Brompton Road before I asked him what he was going to do and where we were going.
‘To the house agents, Hastings. I have a great desire to have a flat in Montagu Mansions. If I am not mistaken, several interesting things will take place there before long.’
We were fortunate in our quest. No 8, on the fourth floor, was to be let furnished at ten guineas a week, Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside in the street again, he silenced my protests:
‘But I make money nowadays! Why should I not indulge a whim? By the way, Hastings, have you a revolver?’
‘Yes–somewhere,’ I answered, slightly thrilled. ‘Do you think–’
‘That you will need it? It is quite possible. The idea pleases you, I see. Always the spectacular and romantic appeals to you.’
The following day saw us installed in our temporary home. The flat was pleasantly furnished. It occupied the same position in the building as that of the Robinsons, but was two floors higher.
The day after our installation was a Sunday. In the afternoon, Poirot left the front door ajar, and summoned me hastily as a bang reverberated from somewhere below.
‘Look over the banisters. Are those your friends? Do not let them see you.’
I craned my neck over the staircase.
‘That’s them,’ I declared in an ungrammatical whisper.
‘Good. Wait awhile.’
About half an hour later, a young woman emerged in brilliant and varied clothing. With a sigh of satisfaction, Poirot tiptoed back into the flat.
‘C’est ça. After the master and mistress, the maid. The flat should now be empty.’
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked uneasily.
Poirot had trotted briskly into the scullery and was hauling at the rope of the coal-lift.
‘We are about to descend after the method of the dustbins,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘No one will observe us. The Sunday concert, the Sunday “afternoon out”, and finally the Sunday nap after the Sunday dinner of England–le rosbif–all these will distract attention from the doings of Hercule Poirot. Come, my friend.’
He stepped into the rough wooden contrivance and I followed him gingerly.
‘Are we going to break into the flat?’ I asked dubiously.
Poirot’s answer was not too reassuring:
‘Not precisely today,’ he replied.
Pulling on the rope, we descended