II
“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
smuggling2 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
Bust3 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.”
“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
devout5 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
nun6. 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
supreme7 value is to collectors
—and there’s a lot of funny business goes on with collectors—you’d be surprised! Sometimes,”
said Wagstaffe
virtuously8, “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
scrupulous9 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
dealer10. 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
investigations11 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 Hercule Poirot, “one simply asks, what did he do? And the answer, Georges, is
that he travelled energetically. But he was forced in the end to obtain information—as some say—
from Prometheus—others from Nereus.”
“Indeed, sir?” said George. “I never heard of either of those gentlemen. Are they travel
agencies, sir?”
Hercule Poirot, enjoying the sound of his own voice, went on:
“My client, Emery Power, understands only one thing—action! But it is useless to
dispense12
energy by unnecessary action. There is a golden rule in life, Georges, never do anything yourself
that others can do for you.
“Especially,” added Hercule Poirot, rising and going to the bookshelf, “when expense is no
object!”
He took from the shelf a file labelled with the letter D and opened it at the words “Detective
Agencies—Reliable.”
“The modern Prometheus,” he murmured. “Be so obliging, Georges, as to copy out for me
certain names and addresses. Messrs Hankerton, New York. Messrs
Laden13 and Bosher, Sydney.
Signor Giovanni Mezzi, Rome. M. Nahum, Stamboul. Messrs Roget et Franconard, Paris.”
He paused while George finished this. Then he said:
“And now be so kind as to look up the trains for Liverpool.”
“Yes, sir, you are going to Liverpool, sir?”
“I am afraid so. It is possible, Georges, that I may have to go even further. But not just yet.”
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