Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [47]
A faint twinkle came into Poirot’s eye.
‘Spirit guidance?’ he murmured.
‘Good Lord, no,’ said Rowley horrified. ‘Matter of fact,’ he hesitated, ‘I heard a fellow I know talk about you — said you were a wizard at these sort of things. I don’t know about your fees — expensive, I expect — we’re rather a stony-broke lot, but I dare say we could cough it up amongst the lot of us. That is, if you’ll take it on.’
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
‘Yes, I think perhaps I can help you.’
His memory, a very precise and definite memory, went back. The club bore, the rustling newspapers, the monotonous voice.
The name — he had heard the name — it would come back to him presently. If not, he could always ask Mellon…No, he had got it. Porter. Major Porter.
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.
‘Will you come back here this afternoon, Mr Cloade?’
‘Well — I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I could. But surely you can’t do anything in that short time?’
He looked at Poirot with awe and incredulity. Poirot would have been less than human if he could have resisted the temptation to show off. With memories of a brilliant predecessor in his mind, he said solemnly:
‘I have my methods, Mr Cloade.’
It was clearly the right thing to say. Rowley’s expression became respectful in the extreme.
‘Yes — of course — really — I don’t know how you people do these things.’
Poirot did not enlighten him. When Rowley had gone, he sat down and wrote a short note. Giving it to George he instructed him to take it to the Coronation Club and wait for an answer.
The answer was highly satisfactory. Major Porter presented his compliments to M. Hercule Poirot and would be happy to see him and his friend at 79 Edgeway Street, Campden Hill, that afternoon at five o’clock.
II
At four-thirty Rowley Cloade reappeared.
‘Any luck, M. Poirot?’
‘But yes, Mr Cloade, we go now to see an old friend of Captain Robert Underhay’s.’
‘What?’ Rowley’s mouth fell open. He stared at Poirot with the amazement a small boy shows when a conjurer produces rabbits out of a hat. ‘But it’s incredible! I don’t understand how you can do these things — why, it’s only a few hours.’
Poirot waved a deprecating hand and tried to look modest. He had no intention of revealing the simplicity with which his conjuring trick had been done. His vanity was pleased to impress this simple Rowley.
The two men went out together, and hailing a taxi they drove to Campden Hill.
III
Major Porter had the first floor of a small shabby house. They were admitted by a cheerful blowsy-looking woman who took them up. It was a square room with bookshelves round it and some rather bad sporting prints. There were two rugs on the floor — good rugs with lovely dim colour but very worn. Poirot noticed that the centre of the floor was covered with a new heavy varnish whereas the varnish round the edge was old and rubbed. He realized then that there had been other better rugs until recently — rugs that were worth good money in these days. He looked up at the man standing erect by the fireplace in his well-cut shabby suit. Poirot guessed that for Major Porter, retired Army officer, life was lived very near the bone. Taxation and increased cost of living struck hardest at the old war-horses. Some things, he guessed, Major Porter would cling to until the end. His club subscription, for instance.
Major Porter was speaking jerkily.
‘’Fraid I don’t remember meeting you, M. Poirot. At the club, you say? Couple of years ago? Know your name of course.’
‘This,’ said Poirot, ‘is Mr Rowland Cloade.’
Major Porter jerked his head in honour of the introduction.
‘How d’ye do?’ he said. ‘’Fraid I can’t ask you to have a glass of sherry. Matter of fact my wine merchant has lost his stock in the Blitz. Got some gin. Filthy stuff, I always think. Or what about some beer?’
They accepted beer. Major Porter produced a cigarette case. ‘Smoke?’ Poirot accepted a cigarette. The Major struck a match and lighted Poirot’s cigarette.
‘You don’t, I know,’ said the Major to Rowley: ‘Mind if I light my pipe?’ He did so with