Nine
THE GIRDLE OF HYPPOLITA
One thing leads to another, as Hercule Poirot is fond of saying without much
originality1.
He adds that this was never more clearly evidenced than in the case of the stolen Rubens.
He was never much interested in the Rubens. For one thing Rubens is not a painter he
admires, and then the circumstances of the theft were quite ordinary. He took it up to oblige
Alexander Simpson who was by way of being a friend of his and for a certain private reason of his
own not unconnected with the classics!
After the theft, Alexander Simpson sent for Poirot and poured out all his
woes2. The Rubens
was a recent discovery, a hitherto unknown masterpiece, but there was no doubt of its
authenticity3.
It had been placed on display at Simpson’s Galleries and it had been stolen in broad daylight. It
was at the time when the
unemployed4 were pursuing their tactics of lying down on street crossings
and
penetrating5 into the Ritz. A small body of them had entered Simpson’s Galleries and lain
down with the slogan displayed of “Art is a Luxury. Feed the Hungry.” The police had been sent
for, everyone had crowded round in eager curiosity, and it was not till the demonstrators had been
forcibly removed by the arm of the law that it was noticed that the new Rubens had been
neatly6
cut out of its frame and removed also!
“It was quite a small picture, you see,” explained Mr. Simpson. “A man could put it under his
arm and walk out while everyone was looking at those
miserable7 idiots of unemployed.”
The men in question, it was discovered, had been paid for their innocent part in the robbery.
They were to demonstrate at Simpson’s Galleries. But they had known nothing of the reason until
afterwards.
Hercule Poirot thought that it was an amusing trick but did not see what he could do about it.
Alexander Simpson said:
“Listen to me, Poirot. I know who stole the picture and where it is going.”
According to the owner of Simpson’s Galleries it had been stolen by a gang of international
crooks10 on behalf of a certain millionaire who was not above acquiring works of art at a
surprisingly low price—and no questions asked! The Rubens, said Simpson, would be
smuggled11
over to France where it would pass into the millionaire’s possession. The English and French
police were on the alert, nevertheless Simpson was of the opinion that they would fail. “And once
it has passed into this dirty dog’s possession, it’s going to be more difficult. Rich men have to be
treated with respect. That’s where you come in. The situation’s going to be delicate. You’re the
man for that.”
Finally, without enthusiasm, Hercule Poirot was induced to accept the task. He agreed to
depart for France immediately. He was not very interested in his quest, but because of it, he was
introduced to the case of the Missing Schoolgirl which interested him very much indeed.
He first heard of it from Chief
Inspector12 Japp who dropped in to see him just as Poirot was
expressing approval of his valet’s packing.
“Ha,” said Japp. “Going to France, aren’t you?”
Poirot said:
“Mon cher, you are incredibly well informed at Scotland Yard.”
“We have our spies! Simpson’s got you on to this Rubens business. Doesn’t trust us, it
seems! Well, that’s neither here nor there, but what I want you to do is something quite different.
As you’re going to Paris anyway, I thought you might as well kill two birds with one stone.
Detective Inspector Hearn’s over there
cooperating with the Frenchies—you know Hearn? Good chap—but perhaps not very imaginative.
I’d like your opinion on the
business.”
“What is this matter of which you speak?”
“Child’s disappeared. It’ll be in the papers this evening. Looks as though she’s been
kidnapped. Daughter of a Canon down at Cranchester. King, her name is, Winnie King.”
He proceeded with the story.
Winnie had been on her way to Paris, to join that select and high-class establishment for
English and American girls—Miss Pope’s. Winnie had come up from Cranchester by the early
train—had been seen across London by a member of Elder Sisters Ltd who undertook such work
as seeing girls from one station to another, had been delivered at Victoria to Miss Burshaw,
Miss Pope’s second-in-command, and had then, in company with eighteen other girls, left Victoria
by the boat train. Nineteen girls had crossed the channel, had passed through the customs at
Calais, had got into the Paris train, had lunched in the restaurant car. But when, on the
outskirts14 of
Paris, Miss Burshaw had counted heads, it was discovered that only eighteen girls could be found!
“Aha,” Poirot nodded. “Did the train stop anywhere?”
“It stopped at Amiens, but at that time the girls were in the restaurant car and they all say
positively15 that Winnie was with them then. They lost her, so to speak, on the return journey to
who were in it. They did not suspect anything was wrong, merely thought she was in one of the
two other reserved carriages.”
Poirot nodded.
“So she was last seen—when exactly?”
“About ten minutes after the train left Amiens.” Japp coughed modestly. “She was last seen
—er—entering the Toilette.”
Poirot murmured:
“Very natural.” He went on: “There is nothing else?”
“Yes, one thing.” Japp’s face was grim. “Her hat was found by the side of the line—at a spot
approximately fourteen miles from Amiens.”
“But no body?”
“No body.”
Poirot asked:
“What do you yourself think?”
“Difficult to know what to think! As there’s no sign of her body—she can’t have fallen off the
train.”
“Did the train stop at all after leaving Amiens?”
“No. It slowed up once—for a signal, but it didn’t stop, and I doubt if it slowed up enough for
anyone to have jumped off without injury. You’re thinking that the kid got a panic and tried to run
away? It was her first term and she might have been homesick, that’s true enough, but all the same
she was fifteen and a half—a sensible age, and she’d been in quite good spirits all the journey,
Poirot asked:
“Was the train searched?”
“Oh yes, they went right through it before it arrived at the Nord station. The girl wasn’t on
the train, that’s quite certain.”
“She just disappeared—into thin air! It doesn’t make sense, M. Poirot. It’s crazy!”
“What kind of a girl was she?”
“Ordinary, normal type as far as I can make out.”
“I mean—what did she look like?”
“I’ve got a snap of her here. She’s not exactly a budding
beauty.”
He
proffered20 the snapshot to Poirot who studied it in silence.
It represented a
lanky21 girl with her hair in two limp plaits. It was not a posed photograph, the
subject had clearly been caught unawares. She was in the act of eating an apple, her lips were
parted, showing slightly
protruding23 teeth confined by a dentist’s plate. She wore spectacles.
Japp said:
“Plain-looking kid—but then they are plain at that age! Was at my dentist’s yesterday. Saw a
picture in the
Sketch24 of Marcia Gaunt, this season’s beauty. I remember her at fifteen when I was
down at the Castle over their burglary business. Spotty, awkward, teeth sticking out, hair all
lank22
and anyhow. They grow into beauties overnight—I don’t know how they do it! It’s like a
miracle.”
Poirot smiled.
“Women,” he said, “are a
miraculous25 sex! What about the child’s family? Have they anything
helpful to say?”
Japp shook his head.
“Nothing that’s any help. Mother’s an
invalid26. Poor old Canon King is absolutely bowled
over. He swears that the girl was frightfully keen to go to Paris—had been looking forward to it.
Wanted to study painting and music—that sort of thing. Miss Pope’s girls go in for Art with a
capital A. As you probably know, Miss Pope’s is a very well-known establishment. Lots of society
girls go there. She’s strict—quite a dragon—and very expensive—and extremely particular whom
she takes.”
Poirot sighed.
“I know the type. And Miss Burshaw who took the girls over from England?”
“Not exactly
frantic27 with brains. Terrified that Miss Pope will say it’s her fault.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“There is no young man in the case?”
Japp gesticulated towards the snapshot.
“Does she look like it?”
“No, she does not. But notwithstanding her appearance, she may have a romantic heart.
Fifteen is not so young.”
“Well,” said Japp. “If a romantic heart spirited her off that train, I’ll take to reading lady
novelists.”
He looked hopefully at Poirot.
“Nothing strikes you—eh?”
Poirot shook his head slowly. He said:
“They did not, by any chance, find her shoes also by the side of the line?”
“Shoes? No. Why shoes?”
Poirot murmured:
“Just an idea. . . .”
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