The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [91]
“Put it that I, like yourself, do not accept defeat.”
Hercule Poirot bowed his head. He said:
“Yes—put that way—I understand. . . .”
II
Inspector Wagstaffe was interested.
“The Veratrino cup? Yes, I remember all about it. I was in charge of the business this end. I speak a bit of Italiano, you know, and I went over and had a powwow with the Macaronis. It’s never turned up from that day to this. Funny thing, that.”
“What is your explanation? A private sale?”
Wagstaffe shook his head.
“I doubt it. Of course it’s remotely possible . . . No, my explanation is a good deal simpler. The stuff was cached—and the only man who knew where it was is dead.”
“You mean Casey?”
“Yes. He may have cached it somewhere in Italy, or he may have succeeded in smuggling it out of the country. But he hid it and wherever he hid it, there it still is.”
Hercule Poirot sighed.
“It is a romantic theory. Pearls stuffed into plaster casts—what is the story—the Bust of Napoleon, is it not? But in this case it is not jewels—it is a large, solid gold cup. Not so easy to hide that, one would think.”
Wagstaffe said vaguely:
“Oh, I don’t know. It could be done, I suppose. Under the floorboards—something of that kind.”
“Has Casey a house of his own?”
“Yes—in Liverpool.” He grinned. “It wasn’t under the floorboards there. We made sure of that.”
“What about his family?”
“Wife was a decent sort of woman—tubercular. Worried to death by her husband’s way of life. She was religious—a devout Catholic—but couldn’t make up her mind to leave him. She died a couple of years ago. Daughter took after her—she became a nun. The son was different—a chip off the old block. Last I heard of him he was doing time in America.”
Hercule Poirot wrote in his little notebook. America. He said: “It is possible that Casey’s son may have known the hiding place?”
“Don’t believe he did. It would have come into the fences’ hands by now.”
“The cup might have been melted down.”
“It might. Quite possible, I should say. But I don’t know—its supreme value is to collectors—and there’s a lot of funny business goes on with collectors—you’d be surprised! Sometimes,” said Wagstaffe virtuously, “I think collectors haven’t any morals at all.”
“Ah! Would you be surprised if Sir Reuben Rosenthal, for instance, were engaged in what you describe as ‘funny business?’ ”
Wagstaffe grinned.
“I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not supposed to be very scrupulous where works of art are concerned.”
“What about the other members of the gang?”
“Riccovetti and Dublay both got stiff sentences. I should imagine they’ll be coming out about now.”
“Dublay is a Frenchman, is he not?”
“Yes, he was the brains of the gang.”
“Were there other members of it?”
“There was a girl—Red Kate she used to be called. Took a job as lady’s maid and found out all about a crib—where stuff was kept and so on. She went to Australia, I believe, after the gang broke up.”
“Anyone else?”
“Chap called Yougouian was suspected of being in with them. He’s a dealer. Headquarters in Stamboul but he has a shop in Paris. Nothing proved against him—but he’s a slippery customer.”
Poirot sighed. He looked at his little notebook. In it was written: America, Australia, Italy, France, Turkey. . . .
He murmured:
“I’ll put a girdle round the earth—”
“Pardon?” said Inspector Wagstaffe.
“I was observing,” said Hercule Poirot, “that a world tour seems indicated.”
III
It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to discuss his cases with his capable valet, George. That is to say, Hercule Poirot would let drop certain observations to which George would reply with the worldly wisdom which he had acquired in the course of his career as a gentleman’s gentleman.
“If you were faced, Georges,” said Poirot, “with the necessity of conducting investigations in five different parts of the globe, how would you set about it?”
“Well, sir, air travel is very quick, though some say as it upsets the stomach. I couldn’t say myself.”
“One asks oneself,” said Hercule Poirot, “what would Hercules have done?”
“You mean the bicycle chap, sir?”
“Or,” pursued