“Madame, these are the facts of the case. Your late secretary, Madame Veroneau, was really the Countess Rossakoff, an expert thief, and it was she who was responsible for the disappearance of M. Halliday. How long had she been with you?”
“Five months, monsieur. What you say amazes me.”
“It is true, nevertheless. These papers, were they easy to find? Or do you think an inside knowledge was shown?”
“It is rather curious that the thieves knew exactly where to look. You think Inez—”
“Yes, I have no doubt that it was upon her information that they acted. But what is this precious thing that the thieves failed to find? Jewels?”
Madame Olivier shook her head with a faint smile.
“Something much more precious than that, monsieur.” She looked round her, then bent forward, lowering her voice. “Radium, monsieur.”
“Radium?”
“Yes, monsieur. I am now at the crux of my experiments. I possess a small portion of radium myself—more has been lent to me for the process I am at work upon. Small though the actual quantity is, it comprises a large amount of the world’s stock and represents a value of millions of francs.”
“And where is it?”
“In its leaden case in the big safe—the safe purposely appears to be of an old and worn-out pattern, but it is really a triumph of the safe-maker’s art. That is probably why the thieves were unable to open it.”
“How long are you keeping this radium in your possession?”
“Only for two days more, monsieur. Then my experiments will be concluded.”
Poirot’s eyes brightened.
“And Inez Veroneau is aware of the fact? Good—then our friends will come back. Not a word of me to anyone, madame. But rest assured, I will save your radium for you. You have a key of the door leading from the laboratory to the garden?”
“Yes, monsieur. Here it is. I have a duplicate for myself. And here is the key of the garden door leading out into the alleyway between this villa and the next one.”
“I thank you, madame. Tonight, go to bed as usual, have no fears, and leave all to me. But not a word to anyone—not to your two assistants—Mademoiselle Claude and Monsieur Henri, is it not?—particularly not a word to them.”
Poirot left the villa rubbing his hands in great satisfaction.
“What are we going to do now?” I asked.
“Now, Hastings, we are about to leave Paris—for England.”
“What?”
“We will pack our effects, have lunch, and drive to the Gare du Nord.”
“But the radium?”
“I said we were going to leave for England—I did not say we were going to arrive there. Reflect a moment, Hastings. It is quite certain that we are being watched and followed. Our enemies must believe that we are going back to England, and they certainly will not believe that unless they see us get on board the train and start.”
“Do you mean we are to slip off again at the last minute?”
“No, Hastings. Our enemies will be satisfied with nothing less than a bona fide departure.”
“But the train doesn’t stop until Calais?”
“It will stop if it is paid to do so.”
“Oh, come now, Poirot—surely you can’t pay an express to stop—they’d refuse.”
“My dear friend, have you never remarked the little handle—the signal d’arrêt—penalty for improper use, 100 francs, I think?”
“Oh! you are going to pull that?”
“Or rather a friend of mine, Pierre Combeau, will do so. Then, while he is arguing with the guard, and making a big scene, and all the train is agog with interest, you and I will fade quietly away.”
We duly carried out Poirot’s plan. Pierre Combeau, an old crony of Poirot’s, and who evidently knew my little friend’s methods pretty well, fell in with the arrangements. The communication cord was pulled just as we got to the outskirts of Paris. Combeau “made a scene” in the most approved French fashion and Poirot and I were able to leave the train without anyone being interested in our departure. Our first proceeding was to make a considerable change in our appearance. Poirot had brought the materials for this with him in a small case. Two loafers in dirty blue blouses were the result. We had dinner in an obscure hostelry, and started back to Paris afterwards.
It was close on eleven o’clock when we found ourselves once more in the neighbourhood of Madame Olivier’s villa. We looked up and down the road before slipping into the alleyway. The whole place appeared to be perfectly deserted. One thing we could be quite certain of, no one was following us.
“I do not expect them to be here yet,” whispered Poirot to me. “Possibly they may not come until tomorrow night, but they know perfectly well that there are only two nights on which the radium will be there.”
Very cautiously we turned the key in the garden door. It opened noiselessly and we stepped into the garden.
And then, with complete unexpectedness, the blow fell. In a minute we were surrounded, gagged, and bound. At least ten men must have been waiting for us. Resistance was useless. Like two helpless bundles we were lifted up and carried along. To my intense astonishment, they took us towards the house and not away from it. With a key they opened the door into the laboratory and carried us into it. One of the men stooped down before a big safe. The door of it swung open. I felt an unpleasant sensation down my spine. Were they going to bundle us into it, and leave us there to asphyxiate slowly?
However, to my amazement, I saw that from the inside of the safe steps led down beneath the floor. We were thrust down this narrow way and eventually came out into a big subterranean chamber. A woman stood there, tall and imposing, with a black velvet mask covering her face. She was clearly in command of the situation by her gestures of authority. The men slung us down on the floor and left us—alone with the mysterious
