Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons

Cat Among the Pigeons

III

At 28 Whitehouse Mansions, Georges, Hercule Poirot's immaculate valet and manservant, opened the door and contemplated with some surprise a schoolgirl with a rather dirty face.

“Can I see M. Hercule Poirot, please?”

Georges took just a shade longer than usual to reply. He found the caller unexpected.

“Mr. Poirot does not see anyone without an appointment,” he said.

“I'm afraid I haven't time to wait for that. I really must see him now. It is very urgent. It's about some murders and a robbery and things like that.”

“I will ascertain,” said Georges, “if Mr. Poirot will see you.”

He left her in the hall and withdrew to consult his master.

“A young lady, sir, who wishes to see you urgently.”

“I daresay,” said Hercule Poirot. “But things do not arrange themselves as easily as that.”

“That is what I told her, sir.”

“What kind of a young lady?”

“Well, sir, she's more of a little girl.”

“A little girl? A young lady? Which do you mean, Georges? They are really not the same.”

“I'm afraid you did not quite get my meaning, sir. She is, I should say, a little girl - of school age, that is to say. But though her frock is dirty and indeed torn, she is essentially a young lady.”

“A social term. I see.”

“And she wishes to see you about some murders and a robbery.”

Poirot's eyebrows went up.

“Some murders, and a robbery. Original. Show the little girl - the young lady - in.”

Julia came into the room with only the slightest trace of diffidence. She spoke politely and quite naturally.

“How do you do, M. Poirot. I am Julia Upjohn. I think you know a great friend of Mummy's. Mrs. Summerhayes. We stayed with her last summer and she talked about you a lot.”

“Mrs. Summerhayes...” Poirot's mind went back to a village that climbed a hill and to a house on top of that hill. He recalled a charming freckled face, a sofa with broken springs, a large quantity of dogs, and other things both agreeable and disagreeable.

“Maureen Summerhayes,” he said. “Ah yes.”

“I call her Aunt Maureen, but she isn't really an aunt at all. She told us how wonderful you'd been and saved a man who was in prison for murder, and when I couldn't think of what to do and who to go to, I thought of you.”

“I am honoured,” said Poirot gravely.

He brought forward a chair for her.

“Now tell me,” he said. “Georges, my servant, told me you wanted to consult me about a robbery and some murders - more than one murder, then?”

“Yes,” said Julia. “Miss Springer and Miss Vansittart. And of course there's the kidnapping, too - but I don't think that's really my business.”

“You bewilder me,” said Poirot. “Where have all these exciting happenings taken place?”

“At my school - Meadowbank.”

“Meadowbank!” exclaimed Poirot. “Ah.” He stretched out his hand to where the newspapers lay neatly folded beside him. He unfolded one and glanced over the front page, nodding his head.

“I begin to comprehend,” he said. “Now tell me, Julia, tell me everything from the beginning.”

Julia told him. It was quite a long story and a comprehensive one - but she told it clearly - with an occasional break as she went back over something she had forgotten.

She brought her story up to the moment when she had examined the tennis racquet in her bedroom last night.

“You see, I thought it was just like Aladdin - new lamps for old - and there must be something about that tennis racquet.”

“And there was?”

“Yes.”

Without any false modesty, Julia pulled up her skirt, rolled up her knicker leg nearly to her thigh and exposed what looked like a grey poultice attached by adhesive plaster to the upper part of her leg.

She tore off the strips of plaster, uttering an anguished “Ouch” as she did so, and freed the poultice which Poirot now perceived to be a packet enclosed in a portion of grey plastic sponge bag. Julia unwrapped it and without warning poured a heap of glittering stones on the table.

“Nom d'un nom d'un nom!” ejaculated Poirot in an awe-inspired whisper.

He picked them up, letting them run through his fingers.

“Nom d'un nom d'un nom! But they are real. Genuine.”

Julia nodded.

“I think they must be. People wouldn't kill other people for them otherwise, would they? But I can understand people killing for these!”

And suddenly, as had happened last night, a woman looked out of the child's eyes.

Poirot looked keenly at her and nodded.

“Yes - you understand - you feel the spell. They cannot be to you just pretty coloured playthings - more is the pity.”

“They're jewels!” said Julia, in tones of ecstasy.

“And you found them, you say, in this tennis racquet?”

Julia finished her recital.

“And you have now told me everything?”

“I think so. I may, perhaps, have exaggerated a little here and there. I do exaggerate sometimes. Now Jennifer, my great friend, she's the other way round. She can make the most exciting things sound dull.” She looked again at the shining heap. “M. Poirot, who do they really belong to?”

“It is probably very difficult to say. But they do not belong to either you or to me. We have to decide now what to do next.”

Julia looked at him in an expectant fashion.

“You leave yourself in my hands? Good.”

Hercule Poirot closed his eyes.

Suddenly he opened them and became brisk.

“It seems that this is an occasion when I cannot, as I prefer, remain in my chair. There must be order and method, but in what you tell me, there is no order and method. That is because we have here many threads. But they all converge and meet at one place, Meadowbank. Different people, with different aims, and representing different interests - all converge at Meadowbank. So, I, too, go to Meadowbank. And as for you - where is your mother?”

“Mummy's gone in a bus to Anatolia.”

“Ah, your mother has gone in a bus to Anatolia. Il ne manquait que зa! I perceive well that she might be a friend of Mrs. Summerhayes! Tell me, did you enjoy your visit with Mrs. Summerhayes?”

“Oh, yes, it was great fun. She's got some lovely dogs.”

“The dogs, yes, I well remember.”

“They come in and out through all the windows - like in a pantomime.”

“You are so right! And the food? Did you enjoy the food?”

“Well, it was a bit peculiar sometimes,” Julia admitted.

“Peculiar, yes, indeed.”

“But Aunt Maureen makes smashing omelettes.”

“She makes smashing omelettes,” Poirot's voice was happy. He sighed.

“Then Hercule Poirot has not lived in vain,” he said. “It was I who taught your Aunt Maureen to make an omelette.” He picked up the telephone receiver.

“We will now reassure your good school mistress as to your safety and announce my arrival with you at Meadowbank.”

“She knows I'm all right. I left a note saying I hadn't been kidnapped.”

“Nevertheless, she will welcome further reassurance.”

In due course he was connected, and was informed that Miss Bulstrode, was on the line.

“Ah, Miss Bulstrode? My name is Hercule Poirot. I have with me here your pupil Julia Upjohn. I propose to motor down with her immediately, and for the information of the police officer in charge of the case, a certain packet of some value has been safely deposited in the bank.”

He rang off and looked at Julia.

“You would like a syrop?” he suggested.

“Golden syrup?” Julia looked doubtful.

“No, a syrup of fruit juice. Black currant, raspberry, groseille - that is, red currant?”

Julia settled for red currant.

“But the jewels aren't in the bank,” she pointed out.

“They will be in a very short time,” said Poirot. “But for the benefit of anyone who listens in at Meadowbank, or who overhears, or who is told, it is as well to think they are already there and no longer in your possession. To obtain jewels from a bank requires time and organization. And I should very much dislike anything to happen to you, my child. I will admit that I have formed a high opinion of your courage and your resource.”

Julia looked pleased but embarrassed.