Cat Sitter Among the Pigeons

Chapter 25

LEGACY

“A Mr. Robinson has called to see you, sir.”

“Ah!” said Hercule Poirot. He stretched out his hand and picked up a letter from the desk in front of him. He looked down on it thoughtfully.

He said: “Show him in, Georges.”

The letter was only a few lines:

Dear Poirot,

A Mr. Robinson may call upon you in the near future. You may already know something about him. Quite a prominent figure in certain circles. There is a demand for such men in our modern world. I believe, if I may so put it, that he is, in this particular matter, on the side of the angels. This is just a recommendation, if you should be in doubt. Of course, and I underline this, we have no idea as to the matter on which he wishes to consult you.

Ha ha! and likewise ho ho!

Yours ever,

Ephraim Pikeaway

Poirot laid down the letter and rose as Mr. Robinson came into the room. He bowed, shook hands, indicated a chair.

Mr. Robinson sat, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his large yellow face. He observed that it was a warm day.

“You have not, I hope, walked here in this heat?”

Poirot looked horrified at the idea. By a natural association of ideas, his fingers went to his moustaches. He was reassured. There was no limpness.

Mr. Robinson looked equally horrified.

“No, no, indeed. I came in my Rolls. But these traffic blocks. One sits for half an hour sometimes.”

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

There was a pause - the pause that ensues on part one of a conversation before entering upon part two.

“I was interested to hear - of course one hears so many things - most of them quite untrue - that you had been concerning yourself with the affairs of a girls' school.”

“Ah,” said Poirot. “That!”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Meadowbank,” said Mr. Robinson thoughtfully. “Quite one of the premier schools of England.”

“It is a fine school.”

“Is? Or was?”

“I hope the former.”

“I hope so, too,” said Mr. Robinson. “I fear it may be touch and go. Ah well, one must do what one can. A little financial backing to tide over a certain inevitable period of depression. A few carefully chosen new pupils. I am not without influence in European circles.”

“I, too, have applied persuasion in certain quarters. If, as you say, we can tide things over. Mercifully, memories are short.”

“That is what one hopes. But one must admit that events have taken place there that might well shake the nerves of fond mammas - and papas also. The games mistress, the French mistress, and yet another mistress - all murdered.”

“As you say.”

“I hear,” said Mr. Robinson, “one hears so many things, that the unfortunate young woman responsible has suffered from a phobia about schoolmistresses since her youth. An unhappy childhood at school. Psychiatrists will make a good deal of this. They will try at least for a verdict of diminished responsibility, as they call it nowadays.”

“That line would seem to be the best choice,” said Poirot. “You will pardon me for saying that I hope it will not succeed.”

“I agree with you entirely. A most cold-blooded killer. But they will make much of her excellent character, her work as secretary to various well-known people, her war record - quite distinguished, I believe - counterespionage...”

He let the last words out with a certain significance - a hint of a question in his voice.

“She was very good, I believe,” he said more briskly. “So young - but quite brilliant, of great use - to both sides. That was her metier - she should have stuck to it. But I can understand the temptation - to play a lone hand, and gain a big prize.” He added softly, “A very big prize.”

Poirot nodded.

Mr. Robinson leaned forward.

“Where are they, M. Poirot?”

“I think you know where they are.”

“Well, frankly, yes. Banks are such useful institutions, are they not?”

Poirot smiled.

“We needn't beat about the bush really, need we, my dear fellow? What are you going to do about them?”

“I have been waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Shall we say - for suggestions?”

“Yes - I see.”

“You understand they do not belong to me. I would like to hand them over to the person they do belong to. But that, if I appraise the position correctly, is not so simple.”

“Governments are in such a difficult position,” said Mr. Robinson. “Vulnerable, so to speak. What with oil, and steel, and uranium, and cobalt and all the rest of it, foreign relations are a matter of the utmost delicacy. The great thing is to be able to say that Her Majesty's Government has absolutely no information on the subject.”

“But I cannot keep this important deposit at my bank indefinitely.”

“Exactly. That is why I have come to propose that you should hand it over to me.”

“Ah,” said Poirot. “Why?”

“I can give you some excellent reasons. These jewels - mercifully we are not official, we can call things by their right names - were unquestionably the personal property of the late Prince Ali Yusuf.”

“I understand that is so.”

“His Highness handed them over to Squadron Leader Robert Rawlinson with certain instructions. They were to be got out of Ramat, and they were to be delivered to me.”

“Have you proof of that?”

“Certainly.”

Mr. Robinson drew a long envelope from his pocket. Out of it he took several papers. He laid them before Poirot on the desk.

Poirot bent over them and studied them carefully.

“It seems to be as you say.”

“Well, then?”

“Do you mind if I ask a question?”

“Not at all.”

“What do you, personally, get out of this?”

Mr. Robinson looked surprised.

“My dear fellow. Money, of course. Quite a lot of money.”

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

“It is a very old trade,” said Mr. Robinson. “And a lucrative one. There are quite a lot of us, a network all over the globe. We are, how shall I put it, the arrangers behind the scenes. For kings, for presidents, for politicians, for all those, in fact, upon whom the fierce light beats, as a poet has put it. We work in with one another, and remember this: we keep faith. Our profits are large but we are honest. Our services are costly - but we do render service.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “Eh bien! I agree to what you ask.”

“I can assure you that that decision will please everyone.” Mr. Robinson's eyes just rested for a moment on Colonel Pikeaway's letter where it lay at Poirot's right hand.

“But just one little moment. I am human. I have curiosity. What are you going to do with these jewels?”

Mr. Robinson looked at him. Then his large yellow face creased into a smile. He leaned forward.

“I shall tell you.”

He told him.