'It might. Quite possible, I should say. But I don't know – its supreme value is to collectors – and there's a lot of funny business goes on with collectors – you'd be surprised! Sometimes,' said Wagstaffe virtuously, 'I think collectors haven't any morals at all.'
'Ah! Would you be surprised if Sir Reuben Rosenthal, for instance, were engaged in what you describe as 'funny business'?'
Wagstaffe grinned. 'I wouldn't put it past him. He's not supposed to be very scrupulous where works of art are concerned.'
'What about the other members of the gang?'
'Ricovetti and Dublay both got stiff sentences. I should imagine they'll be coming out about now.'
'Dublay is a Frenchman, is he not?'
'Yes, he was the brains of the gang.'
'Were there other members of it?'
'There was a girl – Red Kate she used to be called. Took a job as lady's-maid and found out all about a crib – where stuff was kept and so on. She went to Australia, I believe, after the gang broke up.'
'Anyone else?'
'Chap called Yougouian was suspected of being in with them. He's a dealer. Headquarters in Stamboul but he has a shop in Paris. Nothing proved against him – but he's a slippery customer.'
Poirot sighed. He looked at his little notebook. In it was written: America, Australia, Italy, France, Turkey…
He murmured: 'I'll put a girdle round the earth -'
'Pardon?' said Inspector Wagstaffe.
'I was observing,' said Hercule Poirot, 'that a world tour seems indicated.'
III
It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to discuss his cases with his capable valet, George. That is to say, Hercule Poirot would let drop certain observations to which George would reply with the worldly wisdom which he had acquired in the course of his career as a gentleman's gentleman.
'If you were faced, Georges,' said Poirot, 'with the necessity of conducting investigations in five different parts of the globe, how would you set about it?'
'Well, sir, air travel is very quick, though some say as it upsets the stomach. I couldn't say myself.'
'One asks oneself,' said Hercule Poirot, 'what would Hercules have done?'
'You mean the bicycle chap, sir?'
'Or,' pursued Hercule Poirot, 'one simply asks, what did he do? And the answer, Georges, is that he travelled energetically. But he was forced in the end to obtain information – as some say – from Prometheus – others from Nereus.'
'Indeed, sir?' said George. 'I never heard of either of those gentlemen. Are they travel agencies, sir?'
Hercule Poirot, enjoying the sound of his own voice, went on: 'My client, Emery Power, understands only one thing – action! But it is useless to dispense energy by unnecessary action. There is a golden rule in life, Georges, never do anything yourself that others can do for you.
'Especially,' added Hercule Poirot, rising and going to the bookshelf, 'when expense is no object!'
He took from the shelf a file labelled with the letter D and opened it at the words 'Detective Agencies – Reliable'.
'The modern Prometheus,' he murmured. 'Be so obliging, Georges, as to copy out for me certain names and addresses. Messrs. Hankerton, New York. Messrs. Laden and Bosher, Sydney. Signor Giovanni Mezzi, Rome. M. Nahum, Stamboul. Messrs. Roget et Franconard, Paris.'
He paused while George finished this. Then he said: 'And now be so kind as to look up the trains for Liverpool.'
'Yes, sir, you are going to Liverpool, sir?'
'I am afraid so. It is possible, Georges, that I may have to go even further. But not just yet.'
IV
It was three months later that Hercule Poirot stood on a rocky point and surveyed the Atlantic Ocean. Gulls rose and swooped down again with long melancholy cries. The air was soft and damp.
Hercule Poirot had the feeling, not uncommon in those who come to Inishgowlan for the first time, that he had reached the end of the world. He had never in his life imagined anything so remote, so desolate, so abandoned. It had beauty, a melancholy, haunted beauty, the beauty of a remote and incredible past. Here, in the west of Ireland, the Romans had never marched, tramp, tramp, tramp; had never fortified a camp; had never built a well- ordered, sensible, useful road. It was a land where common sense and an orderly way of life were unknown.
Hercule Poirot looked down at the tips of his patent-leather shoes and sighed. He felt forlorn and very much alone. The standards by which he lived were here not appreciated.
His eyes swept slowly up and down the desolate coast line, then once more out to sea. Somewhere out there, so tradition had it, were the Isles of the Blest, the Land of Youth…
He murmured to himself: 'The Apple Tree, the Singing and the Gold…'
And suddenly, Hercule Poirot was himself again – the spell was broken, he was once more in harmony with his patent-leather shoes and natty, dark grey gent's suiting.
Not very far away he had heard the toll of a bell. He understood that bell. It was a sound he had been familiar with from early youth.
He set off briskly along the cliff. In about ten minutes he came in sight of the building on the cliff. A high wall surrounded it and a great wooden door studded with nails was set in the wall. Hercule Poirot came to this door and knocked. There was a vast iron knocker. Then he cautiously pulled at a rusty chain and a shrill little bell tinkled briskly inside the door.
A small panel in the door was pushed aside and showed a face. It was a suspicious face, framed in starched white. There was a distinct moustache on the upper lip, but the voice was the voice of a woman, it was the voice of what Hercule Poirot called a femme formidable.
It demanded his business.
'Is this the Convent of St Mary and All Angels?'
The formidable woman said with asperity: 'And what else would it be?'
Hercule Poirot did not attempt to answer that. He said to the dragon: 'I would like to see the Mother Superior.'
The dragon was unwilling, but in the end she yielded. Bars were drawn back, the door opened and Hercule Poirot was conducted to a small bare room where visitors to the Convent were received.
Presently a nun glided in, her rosary swinging at her waist.
Hercule Poirot was a Catholic by birth. He understood the atmosphere in which he found himself.
'I apologise for troubling you, ma mere,' he said, 'but you have here, I think, a religieuse who was, in the world, Kate Casey.'
The Mother Superior bowed her head.
She said: 'That is so. Sister Mary Ursula in religion.'
Hercule Poirot said: 'There is a certain wrong that needs righting. I believe that Sister Mary Ursula could help me. She has information that might be invaluable.'
The Mother Superior shook her head. Her face was placid, her voice calm and remote. She said: 'Sister Mary Ursula cannot help you.'
'But I assure you -'
He broke off. The Mother Superior said: 'Sister Mary Ursula died two months ago.'
