“We progress, Hastings” said Poirot, rubbing his hands as the Bakers left the room. "Clearly he made a second will and then had workmen from Plymouth in to make a suitable hiding place. Instead of wasting time taking up the floor and tapping the walls,we will go to Plymouth.” With a little trouble, we were able to get the information we wanted. After one or two essays, we found the firm employed by Mr. Marsh. Their employees had all been with them many years, and it was
easy to find the two men who had worked under Mr. Marsh’s orders. They remembered the job perfectly. Among various other minor jobs, they had taken up one of the bricks of the old-fashioned fireplace, made a cavity beneath, and so cut the brick that it was impossible to see the join. By pressing on the second brick from the end, the whole thing was raised. It had been quite a complicated piece of work, and the old gentleman had been very fussy about it. Our informant was a man called Coghan, a big, gaunt man with a grizzled mustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits, and, locking the study door, proceeded to put our newly acquired knowledge into effect. It was impossible to see any sign on the bricks, but when we pressed in the manner indicated, a deep cavity was at once disclosed.
Eagerly Poirot plunged in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from complacent elation to consternation. Ail he held was a charred fragment of sti£F paper. But for it, the cavity was empty.
“SacrW cried Poirot angrily. “Some one has been before us.”
We examined the scrap of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment of what we sought. A portion of Bakers signature remained, but no indication of what the terms of the will had been.
Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been comical if we had not been so overcome.
“I understand it not,” he growled. “Who destroyed this? And what was their object?”
“The Bakers?” I suggested.
“Pourquoi? Neither will makes any provision for them, and they are more likely to be kept on with Miss Marsh than if the place became the property of a hospital. How could it be to anyone's advantage to destroy the will? The hospitals benefit一yes; but one cannot suspect institutions.”
“Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself,” I suggested.
Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care.
“hat may be” he admited. ‘One of your more sensible observations, Hastings. Well, we can do no more here. We have done all that mortal man can do. We have successfully pited our wits against the late Andrew Marsh s； but, unfortunately, his niece is no better off for our success.”
By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a train to London, though not the principal express. Poirot was sad and dissatisfied. For my part, I was tired and dozed in a corner. Suddenly, as we were just moving out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a piercing squeal.
“Vite9 Hastings! Awake and jump! But jump I say!’
Before I knew where I was we were standing on the platform, bareheaded and minus our valises, while the train disappeared into the night. I was furious. But Poirot paid no attention.
“Imbecile that I have been!” he cried. “Triple imbecile! Not again will I vaunt my little gray cells!”
“That’s a good job at any rate,” I said grumpily. “Bui what is this all about?”
As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely no attention to me.
“The tradesmen’s books—I have left them entirely out of account! Yes, but where? Where? Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must return at once.”
Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter, and there Poirot hired a car. We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in the small hours of the morning. I pass over the bewilderment of the Bakers when we had at last aroused them. Paying no attention to anybody, Poirot strode at once to the study.
“I have been,not a triple imbecile, but thirty-six times one, my friend,” he deigned to remark. “Now, behold!”
Going straight to the desk, he drew out the key, and detached the envelope from it. I stared at him stupidly. How could he possibly hope to find a big will form in that tiny envelope? With great care he cut open the envelope, laying it out flat. Then he lighted the fire and held the plain inside surface of the envelope to the flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear.
'4Look, mon amir cried Poirot in triumph.
I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing staling briefly that he left everything to his niece, Violet Marsh. It was dated March 25, I2:30 P.M., and witnessed by Albert Pike, confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman.
“But is it legal?” I gasped.
“As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a blend of disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the testator is clear, and the beneficiary is his only living relation. But the cleverness of him! He foresaw every step that a searcher would take一 that I, miserable imbecile, took. He gets two will forms, makes the servants sign twice, then sallies out with his will writen on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain pen containing his little ink mixture. On some excuse he gets the confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his own signature, then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles to himself. If his niece sees through his little ruse, she will have justified her choice of life and elaborate education, and be thoroughly welcome to his money.”
“She didn’t see through it, did she?” I said slowly. “It seems rather unfair. The old man really won." “But no, Hastings. It is your wits that go astray. Miss Marsh proved the astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher education for women by at once putting the matter in wy hands. Always employ the expert. She has amply proved her right to the money.”
I wonder—I very much wonder—what old Andrew Marsh would have thought
The Veiled Lady
IIIAD noticed that for some time Poirot had been growing increasingly dissatisfied and restless. We had had no interesting cases of late, nothing on which my little friend could exercise his keen wits and remarkable powers of deduction. This morning he (lung down the newspaper with an impatient A”Tchah!”—a favorite exclamation of his which sounded exactly like a cat sneezing.
MThey fear me, Hastings； the criminals of your England they fear me! When the cat is there, the little mice, they come no more to the cheese!”
“I don't suppose the greater part of them even know of your existence” I said, laughing.
Poirot looked at me reproachfully. He always imagines that the whole world is thinking and talking of Hercule Poirot. He had certainly made a name for himself in London, but I could hardly believe that his existence struck terror into the criminal world.
“What about that daylight robbery of jewels in Bond Street the other day?” I asked.
“A neat coup,” said Poirot approvingly,“though not in my line. Pas de finesse, seulement de laudace! A man with a loaded cane smashes the plate-glass window of a jeweler's shop and grabs a number of precious stones. Worthy citizens immediately seize him； a policeman arrI haves. He is caught red-handed with the jewels on him. He is marched offer to the police station, and then it is discovered that the stones are paste. He has passed the real ones to a confederate—one of the aforementioned worthy citizens. He will go to prison—true; but when he comes