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II
Hercule Poirot was sitting at his neat writing desk on a pleasant May morning when his
manservant George approached him and murmured deferentially:
“There is a lady, sir, asking to see you.”
“What kind of a lady?” Poirot asked cautiously.
He always enjoyed the meticulous accuracy of George’s descriptions.
“She would be aged between forty and fifty, I should say, sir. Untidy and somewhat artistic in
appearance. Good walking shoes, brogues. A tweed coat and skirt—but a lace blouse. Some
questionable Egyptian beads and a blue chiffon scarf.”
Poirot shuddered slightly.
“I do not think,” he said, “that I wish to see her.”
“Shall I tell her, sir, that you are indisposed?”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
“You have already, I gather, told her that I am engaged on important business and cannot be
disturbed?”
George coughed again.
“She said, sir, that she had come up from the country specially, and did not mind how long she
waited.”
Poirot sighed.
“One should never struggle against the inevitable,” he said. “If a middle-aged lady wearing
sham Egyptian beads has made up her mind to see the famous Hercule Poirot, and has come up
from the country to do so, nothing will deflect her. She will sit there in the hall till she gets her
way. Show her in, George.”
George retreated, returning presently to announce formally:
“Mrs. Cloade.”
The figure in the worn tweeds and the floating scarf came in with a beaming face. She advanced
to Poirot with an outstretched hand, all her bead necklaces swinging and clinking.
“M. Poirot,” she said, “I have come to you under spirit guidance.”
Poirot blinked slightly.
“Indeed, Madame. Perhaps you will take a seat and tell me—”
He got no further.
“Both ways, M. Poirot. With the automatic writing and with the ouija board. It was the night
before last. Madame Elvary (a wonderful woman she is) and I were using the board. We got the
same initials repeatedly. H.P. H.P. H.P. Of course I did not get the true significance at once. It
takes, you know, a little time. One cannot, on this earthly plane, see clearly. I racked my brains
thinking of someone with those initials. I knew it must connect up with the last séance—really a
most poignant one, but it was some time before I got it. And then I bought a copy of Picture Post
(Spirit guidance again, you see, because usually I buy the New Statesman) and there you were—a
picture of you, and described, and on account of what you had done. It is wonderful, don’t you
think, M. Poirot, how everything has a purpose? Clearly, you are the person appointed by the
Guides to elucidate this matter.”
Poirot surveyed her thoughtfully. Strangely enough the thing that really caught his attention was
that she had remarkably shrewd light-blue eyes. They gave point, as it were, to her rambling
method of approach.
“And what, Mrs.—Cloade—is that right?” He frowned. “I seem to have heard the name
some time ago—”
She nodded vehemently.
“My poor brother-in-law—Gordon. Immensely rich and often mentioned in the press. He was
killed in the Blitz over a year ago—a great blow to all of us. My husband is his younger brother.
He is a doctor. Dr. Lionel Cloade…Of course,” she added, lowering her voice, “he has no idea
that I am consulting you. He would not approve. Doctors, I find, have a very materialistic outlook.
The spiritual seems to be strangely hidden from them. They pin their faith on Science—but what I
say is…what is Science—what can it do?”
There seemed, to Hercule Poirot, to be no answer to the question other than a meticulous and
painstaking description embracing Pasteur, Lister, Humphry Davy’s safety lamp — the
convenience of electricity in the home and several hundred other kindred items. But that,
naturally, was not the answer Mrs. Lionel Cloade wanted. In actual fact her question, like so many
questions, was not really a question at all. It was a mere rhetorical gesture.
Hercule Poirot contented himself with inquiring in a practical manner:
“In what way do you believe I can help you, Mrs. Cloade?”
“Do you believe in the reality of the spirit world, M. Poirot?”
“I am a good Catholic,” said Poirot cautiously.
Mrs. Cloade waved aside the Catholic faith with a smile of pity.
“Blind! The Church is blind—prejudiced, foolish—not welcoming the reality and beauty of
the world that lies behind this one.”
“At twelve o’clock,” said Hercule Poirot, “I have an important appointment.”
It was a well-timed remark. Mrs. Cloade leaned forward.
“I must come to the point at once. Would it be possible for you, M. Poirot, to find a missing
person?”
Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
“It might be possible—yes,” he replied cautiously. “But the police, my dear Mrs. Cloade,
could do so a great deal more easily than I could. They have all the necessary machinery.”
Mrs. Cloade waved away the police as she had waved away the Catholic Church.
“No, M. Poirot—it is to you I have been guided—by those beyond the veil. Now listen. My
brother Gordon married some weeks before his death, a young widow—a Mrs. Underhay. Her first
husband (poor child, such a grief to her) was reported dead in Africa. A mysterious country—
Africa.”
“A mysterious continent,” Poirot corrected her. “Possibly. What part—”
She swept on.
“Central Africa. The home of voodoo, of the zombie—”
“The zombie is in the West Indies.”
Mrs. Cloade swept on:
“—of black magic—of strange and secret practices—a country where a man could disappear
and never be heard of again.”
“Possibly, possibly,” said Poirot. “But the same is true of Piccadilly Circus.”
Mrs. Cloade waved away Piccadilly Circus.
“Twice lately, M. Poirot, a communication has come through from a spirit who gives his name
as Robert. The message was the same each time. Not dead…We were puzzled, we knew no
Robert. Asking for further guidance we got this. ‘R.U. R.U. R.U.—then Tell R. Tell R.’ ‘Tell
Robert?’ we asked. ‘No, from Robert. R.U.’ ‘What does the U. stand for?’ Then, M.
Poirot, the most significant answer came. ‘Little Boy Blue. Little Boy Blue. Ha ha ha!’ You
see?”
“No,” said Poirot, “I do not.”
She looked at him pityingly.
“The nursery rhyme Little Boy Blue. ‘Under the Haycock fast asleep’—Underhay—you
see?”
Poirot nodded. He forbore to ask why, if the name Robert could be spelt out, the name
Underhay could not have been treated the same way, and why it had been necessary to resort to a
kind of cheap Secret service spy jargon.
“And my sister-in-law’s name is Rosaleen,” finished Mrs. Cloade triumphantly. “You
see? Confusing all these Rs. But the meaning is quite plain. ‘Tell Rosaleen that Robert Underhay
is not dead.’”
“Aha, and did you tell her?”
Mrs. Cloade looked slightly taken aback.
“Er—well—no. You see, I mean—well, people are so sceptical. Rosaleen, I am sure, would be
so. And then, poor child, it might upset her—wondering, you know, where he was—and what he
was doing.”
“Besides projecting his voice through the ether? Quite so. A curious method, surely, of
announcing his safety?”
“Ah, M. Poirot, you are not an initiate. And how do we know what the circumstances are?
Poor Captain Underhay (or is it Major Underhay) may be a prisoner somewhere in the dark
interior of Africa. But if he could be found, M. Poirot. If he could be restored to his dear young
Rosaleen. Think of her happiness! Oh, M. Poirot, I have been sent to you—surely, surely you will
not refuse the behest of the spiritual world.”
Poirot looked at her reflectively.
“My fees,” he said softly, “are very expensive. I may say enormously expensive! And the
task you suggest would not be easy.”
“Oh dear—but surely—it is most unfortunate. I and my husband are very badly off—very
badly off indeed. Actually my own plight is worse than my dear husband knows. I bought some
shares—under spirit guidance—and so far they have proved very disappointing—in fact, quite
alarming. They have gone right down and are now, I gather, practically unsaleable.”
She looked at him with dismayed blue eyes.
“I have not dared to tell my husband. I simply tell you in order to explain how I am situated.
But surely, dear M. Poirot, to reunite a young husband and wife—it is such a noble mission—”
“Nobility, chère Madame, will not pay steamer and railway and air travel fares. Nor will it
cover the cost of long telegrams and cables, and the interrogations of witnesses.”
“But if he is found—if Captain Underhay is found alive and well—then—well, I think I may
safely say that, once that was accomplished, there—there would be no difficulty about—er—
reimbursing you.”
“Ah, he is rich, then, this Captain Underhay?”
“No. Well, no…But I can assure you—I can give you my word—that—that the money
situation will not present difficulties.”
Slowly Poirot shook his head.
“I am sorry, Madame. The answer is No.”
He had a little difficulty in getting her to accept that answer.
When she had finally gone away, he stood lost in thought, frowning to himself. He remembered
now why the name of Cloade was familiar to him. The conversation at the club the day of the air
raid came back to him. The booming boring voice of Major Porter, going on and on, telling a story
to which nobody wanted to listen.
He remembered the rustle of a newspaper and Major Porter’s suddenly dropped jaw and
expression of consternation.
But what worried him was trying to make up his mind about the eager middle-aged lady who
had just left him. The glib spiritualistic patter, the vagueness, the floating scarves, the chains and
amulets jingling round her neck—and finally, slightly at variance with all this, that sudden shrewd
glint in a pair of pale-blue eyes.
“Just why exactly did she come to me?” he said to himself. “And what, I wonder, has been
going on in”—he looked down at the card on his desk—“Warmsley Vale?”
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