in different directions.'
''For instance?' he suggested.
''For instance – the taxi-driver. We have only his word for it that he drove the two men to that house. That is one idea. Then was it really that house they went to? Supposing that they left the taxi there, passed through the house and out by another entrance and went elsewhere?'
'Mr Pearson seemed struck by that.
''But you do nothing but sit and think? Can't we do something?'
'He was of an impatient temperament, you comprehend.
''Monsieur,' I said with dignity, 'it is not for Hercule Poirot to run up and down the evil-smelling streets of Limehouse like a little dog of no breeding. Be calm. My agents are at work.'
'On the following day I had news for him. The two men had indeed passed through the house in question, but their real objective was a small eating-house close to the river. They were seen to pass in there, and Lester came out alone.
'And then, figure to yourself, Hastings, an idea of the most unreasonable seized this Mr Pearson! Nothing would suit him but that we should go ourselves to this eating-house and make investigations. I argued and prayed, but he would not listen. He talked of disguising himself – he even suggested that I – I should – I hesitate to say it – should shave off my moustache! Yes, rien que ca! I pointed out to him that that was an idea ridiculous and absurd. One destroys not a thing of beauty wantonly. Besides, shall not a Belgian gentleman with a moustache desire to see life and smoke the opium just as readily as one without a moustache?
'Eh bien, he gave in on that, but he still insisted on his project. He turned up that evening – Mon Dieu, what a figure! He wore what he called the 'pea-jacket', his chin, it was dirty and unshaved; he had a scarf of the vilest that offended the nose. And figure to yourself, he was enjoying himself! Truly, the English are mad! He made some changes in my own appearance. I permitted it. Can one argue with a maniac? We started out – after all, could I let him go alone, a child dressed up to act the charades?'
'Of course you couldn't,' I replied.
'To continue – we arrived. Mr Pearson talked English of the strangest. He represented himself to be a man of the sea. He talked of 'lubbers' and 'focselles' and I know not what. It was a low little room with many Chinese in it. We ate of peculiar dishes. Ah, Dieu, mon estomac!' Poirot clasped that portion of his anatomy tenderly before continuing. 'Then there came to us the proprietor, a Chinaman with a face of evil smiles.
''You gentlemen no likee food here,' he said. 'You come for what you likee better. Piecee pipe, eh?'
'Mr Pearson, he gave me the great kick under the table. (He had on the boots of the sea, too!) And he said: 'I don't mind if I do, John. Lead ahead.'
'The Chinaman smiled, and he took us through a door and to a cellar and through a trapdoor, and down some steps and up again into a room all full of divans and cushions of the most comfortable. We lay down and a Chinese boy took off our boots. It was the best moment of the evening. Then they brought us the opium-pipes and cooked the opium-pills, and we pretended to smoke and then to sleep and dream. But when we were alone, Mr Pearson called softly to me, and immediately he began crawling along the floor. We went into another room where other people were asleep, and so on, until we heard two men talking. We stayed behind a curtain and listened. They were speaking of Wu Ling.
''What about the papers?' said one.
''Mr Lester, he takee those,' answered the other, who was a Chinaman. 'He say, puttee them all in safee place – where pleeceman no lookee.'
''Ah, but he's nabbed,' said the first one.
''He gettee free. Pleeceman not sure he done it.'
'There was more of the same kind of thing, then apparently the two men were coming our way, and we scuttled back to our beds.
''We'd better get out of here,' said Pearson, after a few minutes had elapsed. 'This place isn't healthy.'
''You are right, monsieur,' I agreed. 'We have played the farce long enough.'
'We succeeded in getting away, all right, paying handsomely for our smoke. Once clear of Limehouse, Pearson drew a long breath.
''I'm glad to get out of that,' he said. 'But it's something to be sure.'
''It is indeed,' I agreed. 'And I fancy that we shall not have much difficulty in finding what we want – after this evening's masquerade.'
'And there was no difficulty whatsoever,' finished Poirot suddenly.
This abrupt ending seemed so extraordinary that I stared at him.
'But – but where were they?' I asked.
'In his pocket – tout simplement.'
'But in whose pocket?'
'Mr Pearson's, parbleu!'
Then, observing my look of bewilderment, he continued gently: 'You do not yet see it? Mr Pearson, like Charles Lester, was in debt. Mr Pearson, like Charles Lester, was fond of gambling. And he conceived the idea of stealing the papers from the Chinaman. He met him all right at Southampton, came up to London with him, and took him straight to Limehouse. It was foggy that day; the Chinaman would not notice where he was going. I fancy Mr Pearson smoked the opium fairly often down there and had some peculiar friends in consequence. I do not think he meant murder. His idea was that one of the Chinamen should impersonate Wu Ling and receive the money for the sale of the document. So far, so good! But, to the Oriental mind, it was infinitely simpler to kill Wu Ling and throw his body into the river, and Pearson's Chinese accomplices followed their own methods without consulting him. Imagine, then, what you would call the 'funk bleu' of M. Pearson. Someone may have seen him in the train with Wu Ling – murder is a very different thing from simple abduction.
'His salvation lies with the Chinaman who is impersonating Wu Ling at the Russell Square Hotel. If only the body is not discovered too soon! Probably Wu Ling had told him of the arrangement between him and Charles Lester whereby the latter was to call for him at the hotel. Pearson sees there an excellent way of diverting suspicion from himself. Charles Lester shall be the last person to be seen in company with Wu Ling. The impersonator has orders to represent himself to Lester as the servant of Wu Ling, and to bring him as speedily as possible to Limehouse. There, very likely, he was offered a drink. The drink would be suitably drugged, and when Lester emerged an hour later, he would have a very hazy impression of what had happened. So much was this the case, that as soon as Lester learned of Wu Ling's death, he loses his nerve, and denies that he ever reached Limehouse.
'By that, of course, he plays right into Pearson's hands. But is Pearson content? No – my manner disquiets him, and he determines to complete the case against Lester. So he arranges an elaborate masquerade. Me, I am to be gulled completely. Did I not say just now that he was as a child acting the charades? Eh bien, I play my part. He goes home rejoicing. But in the morning, Inspector Miller arrives on his doorstep. The papers are found on him; the game is up. Bitterly he regrets permitting himself to play the farce with Hercule Poirot! There was only one real difficulty in the affair.'
'What was that?' I demanded curiously.
'Convincing Inspector Miller! What an animal, that! Both obstinate and imbecile. And in the end he took all the credit.'
'Too bad,' I cried.
'Ah, well, I had my compensations. The other director of the Burma Mines Ltd awarded me fourteen thousand shares as a small recompense for my services. Not so bad, eh? But when investing money, keep, I beg of you, Hastings, strictly to the conservative. The things you read in the paper, they may not be true. The directors of the Porcupine – they may be so many Mr Pearsons!'
THE CHOCOLATE BOX
It was a wild night. Outside, the wind howled malevolently, and the rain beat against the windows in great gusts.
Poirot and I sat facing the hearth, our legs stretched out to the cheerful blaze. Between us was a small table.
