IV
Miss Pope’s establishment was, like many other establishments of the same kind,
situated1 in
Neuilly. Hercule Poirot, staring up at its respectable façade, was suddenly submerged by a flow of
girls emerging from its portals.
He counted twenty-five of them, all dressed alike in dark blue coats and skirts with
uncomfortable-looking British hats of dark blue velour on their heads, round which was tied the
distinctive2 purple and gold of Miss Pope’s choice. They were of ages varying from fourteen to
eighteen, thick and slim, fair and dark, awkward and
graceful3. At the end, walking with one of the
younger girls, was a grey-haired,
fussy4 looking woman whom Poirot judged to be Miss Burshaw.
Poirot stood looking after them a minute, then he rang the bell and asked for Miss Pope.
Miss Lavinia Pope was a very different person from her second-in-command, Miss Burshaw.
Miss Pope had personality. Miss Pope was
awe5 inspiring. Even should Miss Pope unbend
graciously to parents, she would still retain that obvious superiority to the rest of the world which
is such a powerful asset to a schoolmistress.
Her grey hair was dressed with distinction, her costume was severe but
chic6. She was
The room in which she received Poirot was the room of a woman of culture. It had graceful
furniture, flowers, some framed, signed photographs of those of Miss Pope’s pupils who were of
note in the world—many of them in their presentation gowns and feathers. On the walls hung
reproductions of the world’s
artistic8 masterpieces and some good watercolour
sketches9. The whole
place was clean and polished to the last degree. No
speck11 of dust, one felt, would have the
Miss Pope received Poirot with the
competence14 of one whose judgement seldom fails.
“M. Hercule Poirot? I know your name, of course. I suppose you have come about this very
unfortunate affair of Winnie King. A most
distressing15 incident.”
“Such a thing,” said Miss Pope, “has never occurred before.”
“And never will again!” her manner seemed to say.
Hercule Poirot said:
“It was the girl’s first term, here, was it not?”
“It was.”
“You had a preliminary interview with Winnie—and with her parents?”
“Not recently. Two years ago, I was staying near Cranchester—with the
Bishop20, as a matter
of fact—”
Miss Pope’s manner said:
(“Mark this, please. I am the kind of person who stays with
Bishops21!”)
“While I was there I made the acquaintance of Canon and Mrs. King. Mrs. King,
alas22, is an
invalid23. I met Winnie then. A very well brought up girl, with a
decided24 taste for art. I told
Mrs. King that I should be happy to receive her here in a year or two—when her general studies
were completed. We specialize here, M. Poirot, in Art and Music. The girls are taken to the Opera,
to the Comédie Française, they attend lectures at the Louvre. The very best masters come here to
instruct them in music, singing, and painting. The broader culture, that is our aim.”
Miss Pope remembered suddenly that Poirot was not a parent and added
abruptly25:
“What can I do for you, M. Poirot?”
“I would be glad to know what is the present position regarding Winnie?”
“Canon King has come over to Amiens and is taking Winnie back with him. The wisest thing
to do after the shock the child has sustained.”
She went on:
“We do not take delicate girls here. We have no special facilities for looking after
invalids26. I
told the Canon that in my opinion he would do well to take the child home with him.”
Hercule Poirot asked bluntly:
“What in your opinion actually occurred, Miss Pope?”
“I have not the slightest idea, M. Poirot. The whole thing, as reported to me, sounds quite
incredible. I really cannot see that the member of my staff who was in charge of the girls was in
any way to blame—except that she might, perhaps, have discovered the girl’s absence sooner.”
Poirot said:
“You have received a visit, perhaps, from the police?”
A faint shiver passed over Miss Pope’s aristocratic form. She said glacially:
“A Monsieur Lefarge of the Préfecture called to see me, to see if I could throw any light upon
the situation. Naturally I was unable to do so. He then demanded to inspect Winnie’s trunk which
had, of course, arrived here with those of the other girls. I told him that that had already been
called for by another member of the police. Their departments, I fancy, must
overlap27. I got a
telephone call, shortly afterwards, insisting that I had not turned over all Winnie’s possessions to
them. I was extremely short with them over that. One must not submit to being
bullied28 by
officialdom.”
Poirot drew a long breath. He said:
“You have a spirited nature. I admire you for it, Mademoiselle. I presume that Winnie’s trunk
“Routine,” she said. “We live
strictly31 by routine. The girls trunks are unpacked on arrival and
their things put away in the way I expect them to be kept. Winnie’s things were unpacked with
those of the other girls. Naturally, they were afterwards repacked, so that her trunk was handed
over exactly as it had arrived.”
Poirot said: “Exactly?”
He strolled over to the wall.
“Surely this is a picture of the famous Cranchester Bridge with the Cathedral showing in the
distance.”
“You are quite right, M. Poirot. Winnie had evidently painted that to bring to me as a
surprise. It was in her trunk with a wrapper round it and ‘For Miss Pope from Winnie’ written on
it. Very charming of the child.”
“Ah!” said Poirot. “And what do you think of it—as a painting?”
He himself had seen many pictures of Cranchester Bridge. It was a subject that could always
be found represented at the Academy each year—sometimes as an oil painting—sometimes in the
watercolour room. He had seen it painted well, painted in a
mediocre32 fashion, painted boringly.
But he had never seen it quite as crudely represented as in the present example.
Miss Pope was smiling indulgently.
She said:
“One must not discourage one’s girls, M. Poirot. Winnie will be
stimulated33 to do better work,
of course.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“It would have been more natural, would it not, for her to do a watercolour?”
“Yes. I did not know she was attempting to paint in oils.”
“Ah,” said Hercule Poirot. “You will permit me, Mademoiselle?”
He unhooked the picture and took it to the window. He examined it, then, looking up, he said:
“I am going to ask you, Mademoiselle, to give me this picture.”
“Well, really, M. Poirot—”
“You cannot pretend that you are very attached to it. The painting is
abominable34.”
“Oh, it has no artistic merit, I agree. But it is a pupil’s work and—”
“I assure you, Mademoiselle, that it is a most unsuitable picture to have hanging upon your
wall.”
“I don’t know why you should say that, M. Poirot.”
“I will prove it to you in a moment.”
He took a bottle, a sponge and some rags from his pocket. He said:
“First I am going to tell you a little story, Mademoiselle. It has a resemblance to the story of
the Ugly Duckling that turned into a Swan.”
He was working busily as he talked. The odour of turpentine filled the room.
“No, indeed, they seem to me so trivial. . . .”
“Trivial, yes, but sometimes instructive. I have seen a clever revue artist change her
glamorous38. Ten minutes later, she is an undersized, anæmic child with adenoids, dressed in a gym
tunic—ten minutes later still, she is a
ragged39 gypsy telling fortunes by a
caravan40.”
“Very possible, no doubt, but I do not see—”
“But I am showing you how the
conjuring41 trick was worked on the train. Winnie, the
schoolgirl, with her fair plaits, her spectacles, her disfiguring dental plate—goes into the Toilette.
She emerges a quarter of an hour later as—to use the words of Detective
Inspector42 Hearn—‘a
flashy piece of goods.’ Sheer silk stockings, high heeled shoes—a
mink43 coat to cover a school
uniform, a daring little piece of
velvet44 called a hat perched on her curls—and a face—oh yes, a
face.
Rouge45, powder,
lipstick46, mascara! What is the real face of that quick change artiste really
like? Probably only the good God knows! But you, Mademoiselle, you yourself, you have often
seen how the awkward schoolgirl changes almost
miraculously47 into the attractive and well-
“Do you mean that Winnie King disguised herself as—”
“Not Winnie King—no. Winnie was kidnapped on the way across London. Our quick change
artiste took her place. Miss Burshaw had never seen Winnie King—how was she to know that the
schoolgirl with the
lank50 plaits and the
brace51 on her teeth was not Winnie King at all? So far, so
good, but the impostor could not afford actually to arrive here, since you were acquainted with the
real Winnie. So hey
presto52, Winnie disappears in the Toilette and emerges as wife to a man called
Jim Elliot whose passport includes a wife! The fair plaits, the spectacles, the lisle thread stockings,
the dental plate—all that can go into a small space. But the thick unglamorous shoes and the hat—
that very unyielding British hat—have to be disposed of elsewhere—they go out of the window.
Later, the real Winnie is brought across the channel—no one is looking for a sick, half-doped child
being brought from England to France—and is quietly deposited from a car by the side of the
main road. If she has been doped all along with scopolamine, she will remember very little of what
has occurred.”
Miss Pope was staring at Poirot. She demanded:
“But why? What would be the reason of such a senseless masquerade?”
Poirot replied gravely:
“Winnie’s luggage! These people wanted to
smuggle53 something from England into France—
something that every Customs man was on the
lookout54 for—in fact, stolen goods. But what place
is safer than a schoolgirl’s trunk? You are well-known, Miss Pope, your establishment is justly
famous. At the Gare du Nord the trunks of Mesdemoiselles the little Pensionnaires are passed en
bloc55. It is the well-known English school of Miss Pope! And then, after the kidnapping, what more
natural than to send and collect the child’s luggage—ostensibly from the Préfecture?”
Hercule Poirot smiled.
“But fortunately, there was the school routine of
unpacking56 trunks on arrival—and a present
for you from Winnie—but not the same present that Winnie packed at Cranchester.”
He came towards her.
“You have given this picture to me. Observe now, you must admit that it is not suitable for
your select school!”
He held out the canvas.
As though by magic Cranchester Bridge had disappeared. Instead was a classical scene in
rich, dim colourings.
Poirot said softly:
“The Girdle of Hyppolita. Hyppolita gives her girdle to Hercules—painted by Rubens. A
great work of art—mais
tout57 de même not quite suitable for your drawing room.”
Miss Pope blushed slightly.
Hyppolita’s hand was on her girdle—she was wearing nothing else . . . Hercules had a lion
skin thrown lightly over one shoulder. The flesh of Rubens is rich,
voluptuous58 flesh. . . .
“A fine work of art . . . All the same—as you say—after all, one must consider the
susceptibilities of parents. Some of them are inclined to be narrow . . . if you know what I mean.
V
It was just as Poirot was leaving the house that the onslaught took place. He was surrounded,
hemmed-in, overwhelmed by a crowd of girls, thick, thin, dark and fair.
“Mon Dieu!” he murmured. “Here indeed is the attack by the Amazons!”
A tall fair girl was crying out:
They surged closer. Hercule Poirot was surrounded. He disappeared in a wave of young,
vigorous femininity.
Twenty-five voices arose, pitched in various keys but all uttering the same
momentous62
phrase.
“M. Poirot, will you write your name in my autograph book . . . ?”
. . .”
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