The tragedy forgotten for the moment, they stared at him open-mouthed.
‘After that,’ continued the little man, ‘she took to her bed.’ He drew out his watch and looked at it. ‘The household is astir. Mr Levering is a long time fetching the police, is he not? I fancy that his sister went with him.’
Evelyn rose with a cry, her eyes fixed on Poirot.
‘And I also fancy that they will not return. Oscar Levering has been sailing close to the wind for a long time, and this is the end. He and his sister will pursue their activities abroad for a time under a different name. I alternately tempted and frightened him this morning. By casting aside all pretence he could gain possession of the ruby whilst we were in the house and he was supposed to be fetching the police. But it meant burning his boats. Still, with a case being built up against him for murder, flight seemed clearly indicated.’
‘Did he kill Nancy?’ whispered Jean.
Poirot rose.
‘Supposing we visit once more the scene of the crime,’ he suggested.
He led the way, and they followed him. But a simultaneous gasp broke from their lips as they passed outside the house. No trace of the tragedy remained; the snow was smooth and unbroken.
‘Crikey!’ said Eric, sinking down on the step. ‘It wasn’t all a dream, was it?’
‘Most extraordinary,’ said M. Poirot, ‘The Mystery of the Disappearing Body.’ His eyes twinkled gently.
Jean came up to him in sudden suspicion.
‘M. Poirot, you haven’t—you aren’t—I say, you haven’t been spoofing us all the time, have you? Oh, I do believe you have!’
‘It is true, my children. I knew about your little plot, you see, and I arranged a little counterplot of my own. Ah, here is Mlle. Nancy—and none the worse, I hope, after her magnificent acting of the comedy.’
It was indeed Nancy Cardell in the flesh, her eyes shining and her whole person exuberant with health and vigour.
‘You have not caught cold? You drank the tisane I sent to your room?’ demanded Poirot accusingly.
‘I took one sip and that was enough. I’m all right. Did I do it well, M. Poirot? Oh, my arm hurts after that tourniquet!’
‘You were splendid, petite. But shall we explain to the others? They are still in the fog, I perceive. See you, mes enfants, I went to Mlle. Nancy, told her that I knew all about your little complot, and asked her if she would act a part for me. She did it very cleverly. She induced Mr Levering to make her a cup of tea, and also managed that he should be the one chosen to leave footprints on the snow. So when the time came, and he thought that by some fatality she was really dead, I had all the materials to frighten him with. What happened after we went into the house, Mademoiselle?’
‘He came down with his sister, snatched the ruby out of my hand, and off they went post-haste.’
‘But I say, M. Poirot, what about the ruby?’ cried Eric. ‘Do you mean to say you’ve let them have that?’
Poirot’s face fell, as he faced a circle of accusing eyes.
‘I shall recover it yet,’ he said feebly; but he perceived that he had gone down in their estimation.
‘Well, I do think!’ began Johnnie. ‘To let them get away with the ruby—’
But Jean was sharper.
‘He’s spoofing us again!’ she cried. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
‘Feel in my left-hand pocket, Mademoiselle.’
Jean thrust in an eager hand, and drew it out again with a squeal of triumph. She held aloft the great ruby in its crimson splendour.
‘You see,’ explained Poirot, ‘the other was a paste replica I brought with me from London.’
‘Isn’t he clever?’ demanded Jean ecstatically.
‘There’s one thing you haven’t told us,’ said Johnnie suddenly. ‘How did you know about the rag? Did Nancy tell you?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Then how did you know?’
‘It is my business to know things,’ said M. Poirot, smiling a little as he watched Evelyn Haworth and Roger Endicott walking down the path together.
‘Yes, but do tell us. Oh, do, please! Dear M. Poirot, please tell us!’
He was surrounded by a circle of flushed, eager faces.
‘You really wish that I should solve for you this mystery?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do not think I can.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ma foi, you will be so disappointed.’
‘Oh, do tell us! How did you know?’
‘Well, you see, I was in the library—’
‘Yes?’
‘And you were discussing your plans just outside—and the library window was open.’
‘Is that all?’ said Eric in disgust. ‘How simple!’
‘Is it not?’ said M. Poirot, smiling.
‘At all events, we know everything now,’ said Jean in a satisfied voice.
‘Do we?’ muttered M. Poirot to himself, as he went into the house. ‘I do not—I, whose business it is to know things.’
And, for perhaps the twentieth time, he drew from his pocket a rather dirty piece of paper.
‘Don’t eat any plum-pudding—’
M. Poirot shook his head perplexedly. At the same moment he became aware of a peculiar gasping sound very near his feet. He looked down and perceived a small creature in a print dress. In her left hand was a dust-pan, and in the right a brush.
‘And who may you be, mon enfant?’ inquired M. Poirot.
‘Annie ’Icks, please, Sir. Between-maid.’
M. Poirot had an inspiration. He handed her the letter.
‘Did you write that, Annie?’
‘I didn’t mean any ’arm, Sir.’
He smiled at her.
‘Of course you didn’t. Suppose you tell me all about it?’
‘It was them two, Sir—Mr Levering and his sister. None of us can abide ’em; and she wasn’t ill a bit—we could all tell that. So I thought something queer was going on, and I’ll tell you straight, Sir, I listened at the door, and I heard him say as plain as plain, ‘This fellow Poirot must be got out of the way as soon as possible.’ And then he says to ’er, meaning-like, ‘Where did you put it?’ And she answers, ‘In the pudding.’ And so I saw they meant
