And you can leave your little affair in my hands.
I will do all that can be done.
But I fear—I much fear—that it will be too late.
Tell me, was the lock of your suitcase forced also?”
She shook her head.
“Let me see it, please.”
We went together to her room, and Poirot examined the suitcase closely.
It had obviously been opened with a key.
“Which is simple enough.
These suitcase locks are all much of the same pattern.
Eh bien, we must ring up the police and we must also get in touch with Mr. Baker Wood as soon as possible. I will attend to that myself.”
I went with him and asked what he meant by saying it might be too late.
“Mon cher, I said today that I was the opposite of the conjurer—that I make the disappearing things reappear—but suppose someone has been beforehand with me.
You do not understand?
You will in a minute.”
He disappeared into the telephone box.
He came out five minutes later looking very grave.
“It is as I feared.
A lady called upon Mr. Wood with the miniatures half an hour ago.
She represented herself as coming from Miss Elizabeth Penn.
He was delighted with the miniatures and paid for them forthwith.”
“Half an hour ago—before we arrived here.”
Poirot smiled rather enigmatically.
“The Speedy cars are quite speedy, but a fast motor from, say, Monkhampton would get here a good hour ahead of them at least.”
“And what do we do now?”
“The good Hastings—always practical.
We inform the police, do all we can for Miss Durrant, and—yes, I think decidedly, we have an interview with Mr. J. Baker Wood.” We carried out this programme.
Poor Mary Durrant was terribly upset, fearing her aunt would blame her. “Which she probably will,” observed Poirot, as we set out for the Seaside Hotel where Mr. Wood was staying. “And with perfect justice.
The idea of leaving five hundred pounds’ worth of valuables in a suitcase and going to lunch!
All the same, mon ami, there are one or two curious points about the case.
That despatch box, for instance, why was it forced?”
“To get out the miniatures.”
“But was not that a foolishness?
Say our thief is tampering with the luggage at lunchtime under the pretext of getting out his own.
Surely it is much simpler to open the suitcase, transfer the despatch case unopened to his own suitcase, and get away, than to waste the time forcing the lock?”
“He had to make sure the miniatures were inside.”
Poirot did not look convinced, but, as we were just being shown into Mr. Wood’s suite, we had no time for more discussion.
I took an immediate dislike to Mr. Baker Wood.
He was a large vulgar man, very much overdressed and wearing a diamond solitaire ring.
He was blustering and noisy.
Of course, he’d not suspected anything amiss.
Why should he?
The woman said she had the miniatures all right.
Very fine specimens, too!
Had he the numbers of the notes?
No, he hadn’t.
And who was Mr.—er—Poirot, anyway, to come asking him all these questions?
“I will not ask you anything more, monsieur, except for one thing.
A description of the woman who called upon you.
Was she young and pretty?”