Agatha Christie: The Collection

“I have been an imbecile! The kitchen!”

“The kitchen,” I cried. “But that’s impossible. The servants!”

“Exactly. Just what ninety-nine people out of a hundred would say! And for that very reason the kitchen is the ideal place to choose. It is full of various homely objects. En avant, to the kitchen!”

I followed him, completely skeptical, and watched whilst he dived into bread-bins, tapped saucepans, and put his head into the gas-oven. In the end, tired of watching him, I strolled back to the study. I was convinced that there, and there only, would we find the cache. I made a further minute search, noted that it was now a quarter past four and that therefore it would soon be growing light, and then went back to the kitchen regions.

To my utter amazement, Poirot was now standing right inside the coalbin, to the utter ruin of his neat light suit. He made a grimace.

“But yes, my friend, it is against all my instincts so to ruin my appearance, but what will you?”

“But Lavington can’t have buried it under the coal?”

“If you would use your eyes, you would see that it is not the coal that I examine.”

I then saw that on a shelf behind the coal-bunker some logs of wood were piled. Poirot was dexterously taking them down one by one. Suddenly he uttered a low exclamation. “Your knife, Hastings!”

I handed it to him. He appeared to insert it in the wood, and suddenly the log split in two. It had been neatly sawn in half and a cavity hollowed out in the centre. From this cavity Poirot took a little wooden box of Chinese make.

“Well done!” I cried, carried out of myself.

“Gently, Hastings! Do not raise your voice too much. Come, let us be off, before the daylight is upon us.”

Slipping the box into his pocket, he leaped lightly out of the coal-bunker, brushed himself down as well as he could, and leaving the house by the same way as we had come, we walked rapidly in the direction of London.

“But what an extraordinary place!” I expostulated. “Anyone might have used the log.”

“In July, Hastings? And it was at the bottom of the pile – a very ingenious hiding-place. Ah, here is a taxi! Now for home, a wash, and a refreshing sleep.”

After the excitement of the night, I slept late. When I finally strolled into our sitting-room just before one o’clock, I was surprised to see Poirot, leaning back in an armchair, the Chinese box open beside him, calmly reading the letter he had taken from it.

He smiled at me affectionately, and tapped the sheet he held. “She was right, the Lady Millicent; never would the Duke have pardoned this letter! It contains some of the most extravagant terms of affection I have ever come across.”

“Really, Poirot,” I said, rather disgustedly, “I don’t think you should really have read the letter. That’s the sort of thing that isn’t done.”

“It is done by Hercule Poirot,” replied my friend imperturbably.

“And another thing,” I said. “I don’t think using Japp’s official card yesterday was quite playing the game.”

“But I was not playing a game, Hastings. I was conducting a case.

“I shrugged my shoulders. One can’t argue with a point of view.

“A step on the stairs,” said Poirot. “That will be Lady Millicent.”

Our fair client came in with an anxious expression on her face which changed to one of delight on seeing the letter and box which Poirot held up.

“Oh, M. Poirot. How wonderful of you! How did you do it?”

“By rather reprehensible methods, milady. But Mr. Lavington will not prosecute. This is your letter, is it not?”

She glanced through it.

“Yes. Oh, how can I ever thank you? You are a wonderful, wonderful man. Where was it hidden?”

Poirot told her.

“How very clever of you! She took up the small box from the table. “I shall keep this as a souvenir.”

“I had hoped, milady, that you would permit me to keep it – also as a souvenir.”

“I hope to send you a better souvenir than that – on my wedding day. You shall not find me ungrateful, M. Poirot.”

“The pleasure of doing you a service will be more to me than cheque – so you permit that I retain the box?”

“Oh no, M. Poirot, I simply must have that,” she cried laughingly. She stretched out her hand, but Poirot was before her. His hand closed over it.

“I think not.” His voice had changed.

“What do you mean?” Her voice seemed to have grown sharper

“At any rate, permit me to abstract its further contents. You observe that the original cavity has been reduced by half. In the top half, the compromising letter; in the bottom —

“He made a nimble gesture, then held out his hand. On the pair were four large glittering stones, and two big milky white pearls.

“The jewels stolen in Bond Street the other day, I rather fancy,” murmured Poirot. “Japp will tell us.”

To my utter amazement, Japp himself stepped out from Poirot’s bedroom.

“An old friend of yours, I believe,” said Poirot politely to Lady Millicent.

“Nabbed, by the Lord!” said Lady Millicent, with a complete change of manner. “You nippy old devil!” She looked at Poirot with almost affectionate awe.

“Well, Gertie, my dear,” said Japp, “the game’s up this time, I fancy. Fancy seeing you again so soon! We’ve got your pal, too, the gentleman who called here the other day calling himself Lavington. As for Lavington himself, alias Croker, alias Reed, I wonder which of the gang it was who stuck a knife into him the other day in Holland? Thought he’d got the goods with him, didn’t you? And he hadn’t. He double-crossed you properly – hid ‘em in his own house. You had two fellows looking for them, and then you tackled M. Poirot here, and by a piece of amazing luck he found them.”

“You do like talking, don’t you?” said the late Lady Millicent. “Easy there, now. I’ll go quietly. You can’t say that I’m not the perfect lady. Ta-ta, all!”

“The shoes were wrong,” said Poirot dreamily, while I was still too stupefied to speak. “I have made my little observations of your English nation, and a lady, a born lady, is always particular about her shoes. She may have shabby clothes, but she will be well shod. Now, this Lady Millicent had smart, expensive clothes, and cheap shoes. It was not likely that either you or I should have seen the real Lady Millicent; she has been very little in London, and this girl had a certain superficial resemblance which would pass well enough. As I say, the shoes first awakened my suspicions, and then her story – and her veil – were a little melodramatic, eh? The Chinese box with a bogus compromising letter in the top must have been known to all the gang, but the log of wood was the late Mr. Lavington’s own idea. Eh, par example, Hastings, I hope you will not again wound my feelings as you did yesterday by saying that I am unknown to the criminal classes. Ma foi, they even employ me when they themselves fail?”

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christie’s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (2017) and Death on the Nile (2021). On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britain’s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.