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IV
The drawing room of Mrs. Samuelson was larger, more lavishly furnished, and enjoyed an even
more stifling amount of central heating than that of Lady Hoggin. Hercule Poirot picked his way
giddily amongst gilded console tables and large groups of
statuary.
Mrs. Samuelson was taller than Lady Hoggin and her hair was dyed with peroxide. Her
Pekinese was called Nanki Poo. His bulging eyes surveyed Hercule Poirot with arrogance.
Miss Keble, Mrs. Samuelson’s companion, was thin and scraggy where Miss Carnaby had been
plump, but she also was voluble and slightly breathless. She, too, had been blamed for Nanki
Poo’s disappearance.
“But really, Mr. Poirot, it was the most amazing thing. It all happened in a second. Outside
Harrods it was. A nurse there asked me the time—”
Poirot interrupted her.
“A nurse? A hospital nurse?”
“No, no—a children’s nurse. Such a sweet baby it was, too! A dear little mite. Such lovely
rosy cheeks. They say children don’t look healthy in London, but I’m sure—”
“Ellen,” said Mrs. Samuelson.
Miss Keble blushed, stammered, and subsided into silence.
Mrs. Samuelson said acidly:
“And while Miss Keble was bending over a perambulator that had nothing to do with her, this
audacious villain cut Nanki Poo’s lead and made off with him.”
Miss Keble murmured tearfully:
“It all happened in a second. I looked round and the darling boy was gone—there was just the
dangling lead in my hand. Perhaps you’d like to see the lead, Mr. Poirot?”
“By no means,” said Poirot hastily. He had no wish to make a collection of cut dog leads. “I
understand,” he went on, “that shortly afterwards you received a letter?”
The story followed the same course exactly—the letter—the threats of violence to Nanki
Poo’s ears and tail. Only two things were different—the sum of money demanded—£300—and the
address to which it was to be sent: this time it was to Commander Blackleigh, Harrington Hotel,
76 Clonmel Gardens, Kensington.
Mrs. Samuelson went on:
“When Nanki Poo was safely back again, I went to the place myself, Mr. Poirot. After all,
three hundred pounds is three hundred pounds.”
“Certainly it is.”
“The very first thing I saw was my letter enclosing the money in a kind of rack in the hall.
Whilst I was waiting for the proprietress I slipped it into my bag. Unfortunately—”
Poirot said: “Unfortunately, when you opened it it contained only blank sheets of paper.”
“How did you know?” Mrs. Samuelson turned on him with awe.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Obviously, chère Madame, the thief would take care to recover the money before he
returned the dog. He would then replace the notes with blank paper and return the letter to the rack
in case its absence should be noticed.”
“No such person as Commander Blackleigh had ever stayed there.”
Poirot smiled.
“And of course, my husband was extremely annoyed about the whole thing. In fact, he was
livid—absolutely livid!”
Poirot murmured cautiously:
“You did not—er—consult him before dispatching the money?”
“Certainly not,” said Mrs. Samuelson with decision.
Poirot looked a question. The lady explained.
“I wouldn’t have risked it for a moment. Men are so extraordinary when it’s a question of
money. Jacob would have insisted on going to the police. I couldn’t risk that. My poor darling
Nanki Poo. Anything might have happened to him! Of course, I had to tell my husband afterwards,
because I had to explain why I was overdrawn at the Bank.”
Poirot murmured:
“Quite so—quite so.”
“And I have really never seen him so angry. Men,” said Mrs. Samuelson, rearranging her
handsome diamond bracelet and turning her rings on her fingers, “think of nothing but money.”
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