VII
It was three days later when the
invaluable1 Georges said:
“This is the address, sir.”
Hercule Poirot took the piece of paper handed to him.
“Excellent, my good Georges. And what day of the week?”
“Thursdays, sir.”
“Thursdays. And today, most fortunately, is a Thursday. So there need be no delay.”
Twenty minutes later Hercule Poirot was climbing the stairs of an obscure block of flats
tucked away in a little street leading off a more fashionable one. No. 10 Rosholm
Mansions2 was
on the third and top floor and there was no lift. Poirot
toiled3 upwards4 round and round the narrow
corkscrew staircase.
He paused to
regain5 his breath on the top landing and from behind the door of No. 10 a new
sound broke the silence—the sharp bark of a dog.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head with a slight smile. He pressed the bell of No. 10.
The barking redoubled—footsteps came to the door, it was opened. . . .
Miss Amy Carnaby fell back, her hand went to her ample breast.
“You permit that I enter?” said Hercule Poirot, and entered without waiting for the reply.
There was a sitting room door open on the right and he walked in. Behind him Miss Carnaby
followed as though in a dream.
The room was very small and much overcrowded. Amongst the furniture a human being
could be discovered, an elderly woman lying on a sofa
drawn6 up to the gas fire. As Poirot came in,
a Pekinese dog jumped off the sofa and came forward uttering a few sharp suspicious barks.
“Aha,” said Poirot. “The chief actor! I
salute7 you, my little friend.”
man’s face.
Miss Carnaby muttered faintly:
“So you know?”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
“Yes, I know.” He looked at the woman on the sofa. “Your sister, I think?”
Miss Carnaby said mechanically: “Yes, Emily, this—this is Mr. Poirot.”
Emily Carnaby gave a
gasp11. She said: “Oh!”
Amy Carnaby said:
“Augustus. . . .”
The Pekinese looked towards her—his tail moved—then he resumed his
scrutiny12 of Poirot’s
hand. Again his tail moved faintly.
Gently, Poirot picked the little dog up and sat down with Augustus on his knee. He said:
“So I have captured the Nemean Lion. My task is completed.”
Amy Carnaby said in a hard dry voice:
“Do you really know everything?”
Poirot nodded.
“I think so. You organized this business—with Augustus to help you. You took your
employer’s dog out for his usual walk, brought him here and went on to the Park with Augustus.
The Park Keeper saw you with a Pekinese as usual. The nurse girl, if we had ever found her,
would also have agreed that you had a Pekinese with you when you
spoke13 to her. Then, while you
were talking, you cut the lead and Augustus, trained by you, slipped off at once and made a
beeline back home. A few minutes later you gave the alarm that the dog had been stolen.”
There was a pause. Then Miss Carnaby drew herself up with a certain pathetic dignity. She
said:
“Yes. It is all quite true. I—I have nothing to say.”
The
invalid14 woman on the sofa began to cry softly.
Poirot said:
“Nothing at all, Mademoiselle?”
Miss Carnaby said:
“Nothing. I have been a thief—and now I am found out.”
Poirot murmured:
“You have nothing to say—in your own defence?”
A spot of red showed suddenly in Amy Carnaby’s white cheeks. She said:
“I—I don’t regret what I did. I think that you are a kind man, Mr. Poirot, and that possibly
you might understand. You see, I’ve been so terribly afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes, it’s difficult for a gentleman to understand, I expect. But you see, I’m not a clever
woman at all, and I’ve no training and I’m getting older—and I’m so terrified for the future. I’ve
not been able to save anything—how could I with Emily to be cared for?—and as I get older and
more
incompetent15 there won’t be any one who wants me. They’ll want somebody young and
brisk. I’ve—I’ve known so many people like I am—nobody wants you and you live in one room
and you can’t have a fire or any warmth and not very much to eat, and at last you can’t even pay
the rent of your room . . . There are Institutions, of course, but it’s not very easy to get into them
—poor companions—untrained useless women with nothing to look forward to but a deadly fear.
. . .”
Her voice shook. She said:
“And so—some of us—got together and—and I thought of this. It was really having
Augustus that put it into my mind. You see, to most people, one Pekinese is very much like
another. (Just as we think the Chinese are.) Really, of course, it’s ridiculous. No one who knew
could mistake Augustus for Nanki Poo or Shan Tung or any of the other Pekes. He’s far more
intelligent for one thing, and he’s much handsomer, but, as I say, to most people a Peke is just a
Peke. Augustus put it into my head—that, combined with the fact that so many rich women have
Pekinese dogs.”
Poirot said with a faint smile:
“It must have been a profitable—racket! How many are there in the—the gang? Or perhaps I
had better ask how often operations have been successfully carried out?”
Miss Carnaby said simply:
“Shan Tung was the sixteenth.”
“I congratulate you. Your organization must have been indeed excellent.”
Emily Carnaby said:
“Amy was always good at organization. Our father—he was the Vicar of Kellington in Essex
—always said that Amy had quite a genius for planning. She always made all the arrangements for
Poirot said with a little bow:
“I agree. As a criminal, Mademoiselle, you are quite in the first rank.”
Amy Carnaby cried:
“A criminal. Oh dear, I suppose I am. But—but it never felt like that.”
“How did it feel?”
“Of course, you are quite right. It was breaking the law. But you see—how can I explain it?
Nearly all these women who employ us are so very rude and unpleasant. Lady Hoggin, for
instance, doesn’t mind what she says to me. She said her
tonic20 tasted unpleasant the other day and
practically accused me of
tampering21 with it. All that sort of thing.” Miss Carnaby flushed. “It’s
really very unpleasant. And not being able to say anything or answer back makes it
rankle22 more, if
you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” said Hercule Poirot.
“And then seeing money frittered away so wastefully—that is upsetting. And Sir Joseph,
occasionally he used to describe a
coup23 he had made in the City—sometimes something that
seemed to me (of course, I know I’ve only got a woman’s brain and don’t understand finance)
downright dishonest. Well, you know, M. Poirot, it all—it all unsettled me, and I felt that to take a
little money away from these people who really wouldn’t miss it and hadn’t been too
scrupulous24 in
acquiring it—well, really it hardly seemed wrong at all.”
Poirot murmured:
“A modern
Robin25 Hood26! Tell me, Miss Carnaby, did you ever have to carry out the threats
you used in your letters?”
“Threats?”
“Were you ever compelled to mutilate the animals in the way you
specified27?”
Miss Carnaby regarded him in horror.
“Of course, I would never have dreamed of doing such a thing! That was just—just an
artistic28
touch.”
“Very artistic. It worked.”
“Well, of course I knew it would. I know how I should have felt about Augustus, and of
course I had to make sure these women never told their husbands until afterwards. The plan
worked beautifully every time. In nine cases out of ten the companion was given the letter with the
money to post. We usually steamed it open, took out the notes, and replaced them with paper.
Once or twice the woman posted it herself. Then, of course, the companion had to go to the hotel
and take the letter out of the rack. But that was quite easy, too.”
“And the nursemaid touch? Was it always a nursemaid?”
“Well, you see, M. Poirot, old maids are known to be foolishly
sentimental29 about babies. So
it seemed quite natural that they should be absorbed over a baby and not notice anything.”
Hercule Poirot sighed. He said:
“Your
psychology30 is excellent, your organization is first class, and you are also a very fine
actress. Your performance the other day when I interviewed Lady Hoggin was
irreproachable31.
Never think of yourself
disparagingly32, Miss Carnaby. You may be what is termed an untrained
woman but there is nothing wrong with your brains or with your courage.”
Miss Carnaby said with a faint smile:
“And yet I have been found out, M. Poirot.”
“Only by me. That was
inevitable33! When I had interviewed Mrs. Samuelson I realized that
the kidnapping of Shan Tung was one of a series. I had already learned that you had once been left
a Pekinese dog and had an invalid sister. I had only to ask my invaluable servant to look for a
small flat within a certain
radius34 occupied by an invalid lady who had a Pekinese dog and a sister
who visited her once a week on her day out. It was simple.”
Amy Carnaby drew herself up. She said:
“You have been very kind. It
emboldens35 me to ask you a favour. I cannot, I know, escape the
penalty for what I have done. I shall be sent to prison, I suppose. But if you could, M. Poirot,
avert36
could not, I suppose, go to prison under a false name? Or is that a very wrong thing to ask?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I think I can do more than that. But first of all I must make one thing quite clear. This
ramp39
has got to stop. There must be no more disappearing dogs. All that is finished!”
“Yes! Oh yes!”
“And the money you extracted from Lady Hoggin must be returned.”
Amy Carnaby crossed the room, opened the drawer of a bureau and returned with a packet of
notes which she handed to Poirot.
“I was going to pay it into the pool today.”
Poirot took the notes and counted them. He got up.
“I think it possible, Miss Carnaby, that I may be able to persuade Sir Joseph not to
“Oh, M. Poirot!”
Amy Carnaby clasped her hands. Emily gave a cry of joy. Augustus barked and wagged his
tail.
“As for you, mon ami,” said Poirot addressing him. “There is one thing that I wish you would
give me. It is your
mantle41 of invisibility that I need. In all these cases nobody for a moment
suspected that there was a second dog involved. Augustus
possessed42 the lion’s skin of
invisibility.”
“Of course, M. Poirot, according to the legend, Pekinese were lions once. And they still have
the hearts of lions!”
“Augustus is, I suppose, the dog that was left to you by Lady Hartingfield and who is
reported to have died? Were you never afraid of him coming home alone through the traffic?”
“Oh no, M. Poirot, Augustus is very clever about traffic. I have trained him most carefully.
He has even grasped the principle of One Way Streets.”
“In that case,” said Hercule Poirot, “he is superior to most human beings!”
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