III
“I wish to speak to you with the utmost seriousness,” said Poirot.
The hour was early, the Club as yet nearly empty. The Countess and Poirot sat at a small
“But I do not feel serious,” she protested. “La petite Alice, she is always serious and, entre
nous, I find it very boring. My poor Niki, what fun will he have? None.”
“I entertain for you much affection,” continued Poirot
steadily2. “And I do not want to see you
in what is called the jam.”
“But it is absurd what you say there! I am on top of the world, the money it rolls in!”
“You own this place?”
The Countess’s eye became slightly evasive.
“Certainly,” she replied.
“But you have a partner?”
“Who told you that?” asked the Countess sharply.
“Is your partner Paul Varesco?”
“Oh! Paul Varesco! What an idea!”
“He has a bad—a criminal record. Do you realize that you have criminals frequenting this
place?”
The Countess burst out laughing.
“There speaks the bon
bourgeois3! Naturally I realize! Do you not see that that is half the
attraction of this place? These young people from Mayfair—they get tired of seeing their own kind
round them in the West End. They come here, they see the criminals; the thief, the
blackmailer4,
the confidence trickster—perhaps, even, the murderer—the man who will be in the Sunday papers
next week! It is exciting, that—they think they are seeing life! So does the prosperous man who all
the week sells the knickers, the stockings, the corsets! What a change from his respectable life and
his respectable friends! And then, a further thrill—there at a table, stroking his moustache, is the
Inspector5 from Scotland Yard—an Inspector in tails!”
“So you knew that?” said Poirot softly.
Her eyes met his and she smiled.
“Mon cher ami, I am not so simple as you seem to suppose!”
“Do you also deal in drugs here?”
“Ah, ça no!” The Countess
spoke6 sharply. “That would be an abomination!”
Poirot looked at her for a moment or two, then he sighed.
“I believe you,” he said. “But in that case it is all the more necessary that you tell me who
really owns this place.”
“I own it,” she snapped.
“On paper, yes. But there is someone behind you.”
“Do you know, mon ami, I find you altogether too curious? Is he not much too curious, Dou
dou?”
Her voice dropped to a coo as she spoke the last words and she threw the duck bone from her
plate to the big black hound who caught it with a
ferocious7 snap of the
jaws8.
“What is it that you call that animal,” asked Poirot, diverted.
“C’est mon petit Dou dou!”
“But it is ridiculous, a name like that!”
“But he is adorable! He is a police dog! He can do anything—
anything—Wait!”
She rose, looked round her, and suddenly snatched up a plate with a large succulent steak
which had just been deposited before a diner at a nearby table. She crossed to the marble
niche9 and
put the plate down in front of the dog, at the same time uttering a few words in Russian.
Cerberus gazed in front of him. The steak might not have existed.
“You see? And it is not just a matter of minutes! No, he will remain like that for hours if need
be!”
Then she murmured a word and like lightning Cerberus
bent10 his long neck and the steak
disappeared as though by magic.
Vera Rossakoff flung her arms round the dog’s neck and embraced him
passionately11, rising
on tiptoe to do so.
“See how gentle he can be!” she cried. “For me, for Alice, for his friends—they can do what
they like! But one has but to give him the word and
Presto12! I can assure you he would tear a—
police inspector, for instance—into little pieces! Yes, into little pieces!”
She burst out laughing.
“I would have but to say the word—”
Poirot interrupted hastily. He mistrusted the Countess’s sense of humour. Inspector Stevens
might be in real danger.
“Professor Liskeard wants to speak to you.”
The professor was
standing13 reproachfully at her elbow.
“You took my steak,” he complained. “Why did you take my steak? It was a good steak!”
IV
“Thursday night, old man,” said Japp. “That’s when the balloon goes up. It’s Andrews’ pigeon, of
course—Narcotic Squad—but he’ll be delighted to have you horn in. No, thanks, I won’t have any
of your fancy sirops. I have to take care of my stomach. Is that whisky I see over there? That’s
more the ticket!”
Setting his glass down, he went on:
“We’ve solved the problem, I think. There’s another way out at the Club—and we’ve found
it!”
“Where?”
“Behind the
grill14. Part of it swings round.”
“But surely you would see—”
“No, old boy. When the raid started, the lights went out—switched off at the main—and it
took us a minute or two to get them turned on again. Nobody got out the front way because it was
being watched, but it’s clear now that somebody could have nipped out by the secret way with the
doings. We’ve been examining the house behind the Club—and that’s how we tumbled to the
trick.”
“And you propose to do—what?”
“Let it go according to plan—the police appear, the lights go out—and somebody’s waiting
on the other side of that secret door to see who comes through. This time we’ve got ’em!”
“Why Thursday?”
Again Japp winked.
“We’ve got the Golconda pretty well taped now. There will be stuff going out of there on
Thursday. Lady Carrington’s emeralds.”
“You permit,” said Poirot, “that I too make one or two little arrangements?”
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