“What exactly led you to discover that the bonds had been stolen, Mr. Ridgeway?”
He laughed rather bitterly.
“The thing stared me in the face, Monsieur Poirot. I couldn’t have missed it. My cabin trunk was half out from under the bunk and all scratched and cut about where they’d tried to force the lock.”
“But I understood that it had been opened with a key?”
“That’s so. They tried to force it, but couldn’t. And in the end, they must have got it unlocked somehow or other.”
“Curious,” said Poirot, his eyes beginning to flicker with the green light I knew so well. “Very curious! They waste much, much time trying to prise it open, and then—sapristi! they find they have the key all the time—for each of Hubbs’s locks are unique.”
“That’s just why they couldn’t have had the key. It never left me day or night.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I can swear to it, and besides, if they had had the key or a duplicate, why should they waste time trying to force an obviously unforceable lock?”
“Ah! there is exactly the question we are asking ourselves! I venture to prophesy that the solution, if we ever find it, will hinge on that curious fact. I beg of you not to assault me if I ask you one more question: Are you perfectly certain that you did not leave the trunk unlocked?”
Philip Ridgeway merely looked at him, and Poirot gesticulated apologetically.
“Ah, but these things can happen, I assure you! Very well, the bonds were stolen from the trunk. What did the thief do with them? How did he manage to get ashore with them?”
“Ah!” cried Ridgeway. “That’s just it. How? Word was passed to the Customs authorities, and every soul that left the ship was gone over with a toothcomb!”
“And the bonds, I gather, made a bulky package?”
“Certainly they did. They could hardly have been hidden on board—and anyway we know they weren’t, because they were offered for sale within half an hour of the Olympia’s arrival, long before I got the cables going and the numbers sent out. One broker swears he bought some of them even before the Olympia got in. But you can’t send bonds by wireless.”
“Not by wireless, but did any tug come alongside?”
“Only the official ones, and that was after the alarm was given when everyone was on the lookout. I was watching out myself for their being passed over to someone that way. My God, Monsieur Poirot, this thing will drive me mad! People are beginning to say I stole them myself.”
“But you also were searched on landing, weren’t you?” asked Poirot gently.
“Yes.”
The young man stared at him in a puzzled manner.
“You do not catch my meaning, I see,” said Poirot, smiling enigmatically. “Now I should like to make a few inquiries at the Bank.”
Ridgeway produced a card and scribbled a few words on it.
“Send this in and my uncle will see you at once.”
Poirot thanked him, bade farewell to Miss Farquhar, and together we started out for Threadneedle Street and the head office of the London and Scottish Bank. On production of Ridgeway’s card, we were led through the labyrinth of counters and desks, skirting paying-in clerks and paying-out clerks and up to a small office on the first floor where the joint general managers received us. They were two grave gentlemen, who had grown grey in the service of the Bank. Mr. Vavasour had a short white beard, Mr. Shaw was clean shaven.
“I understand you are strictly a private inquiry agent?” said Mr. Vavasour. “Quite so, quite so. We have, of course, placed ourselves in the hands of Scotland Yard. Inspector McNeil has charge of the case. A very able officer, I believe.”
“I am sure of it,” said Poirot politely. “You will permit a few questions, on your nephew’s behalf? About this lock, who ordered it from Hubbs’s?”
“I ordered it myself,” said Mr. Shaw. “I would not trust to any clerk in the matter. As to the keys, Mr. Ridgeway had one, and the other two are held by my colleague and myself.”
“And no clerk has had access to them?”
Mr. Shaw turned inquiringly to Mr. Vavasour.
“I think I am correct in saying that they have remained in the safe where we placed them on the 23rd,” said Mr. Vavasour. “My colleague was unfortunately taken ill a fortnight ago—in fact on the very day that Philip left us. He has only just recovered.”
“Severe bronchitis is no joke to a man of my age,” said Mr. Shaw ruefully. “But I’m afraid Mr. Vavasour has suffered from the hard work entailed by my absence, especially with this unexpected worry coming on top of everything.”
Poirot asked a few more questions. I judged that he was endeavouring to gauge the exact amount of intimacy between uncle and nephew. Mr. Vavasour’s answers were brief and punctilious. His nephew was a trusted official of the Bank, and had no debts or money difficulties that he knew of. He had been entrusted with similar missions in the past. Finally we were politely bowed out.
“I am disappointed,” said Poirot, as we emerged into the street.
“You hoped to discover more? They are such stodgy old men.”
“It is not their stodginess which disappoints me, mon ami. I do not expect to find in a Bank manager, a ‘keen financier with an eagle glance,’ as your favourite works of fiction put it. No, I am disappointed in the case—it is too easy!”
“Easy?”
“Yes, do you not find it almost childishly simple?”
“You know who stole the bonds?”
“I do.”
“But then—we must—why—”
“Do not confuse and fluster yourself, Hastings. We are not going to do anything at present.”
“But why? What are you waiting for?”
“For the Olympia. She is due on her return trip from New York on Tuesday.”
“But if you know who stole the bonds, why wait? He may escape.”
“To a South Sea island where there is no extradition? No, mon ami, he would find life very uncongenial there. As to why I wait—eh bien, to the intelligence of Hercule Poirot the case is perfectly clear, but for the benefit of others, not so greatly gifted by the good God—the Inspector, McNeil, for instance—it would be as well to make a few inquiries to establish the facts. One must have consideration for those less gifted than oneself.”
“Good Lord, Poirot! Do you know, I’d give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself—just for once. You’re so confoundedly conceited!”
“Do not enrage yourself, Hastings. In verity, I observe that there are times when you almost detest me! Alas, I suffer the penalties of greatness!”
The little man puffed out his chest, and sighed so comically that I was forced to laugh.
Tuesday saw us speeding to Liverpool in a first-class carriage of the L and NWR. Poirot had obstinately refused to enlighten me as to his suspicions—or certainties. He contented himself with expressing surprise that I, too, was not equally au fait with the situation. I disdained to argue, and entrenched my curiosity behind a rampart of pretended indifference.
Once arrived at the quay alongside which lay the big transatlantic liner, Poirot became brisk and alert. Our proceedings consisted in interviewing four successive stewards and inquiring after a friend of Poirot’s who had crossed to New York on
the 23rd.
“An elderly gentleman, wearing glasses. A great invalid, hardly moved out of his cabin.”
The description appeared to tally with one Mr. Ventnor who had occupied the cabin C24 which was next to that of Philip Ridgeway. Although unable to see how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor’s existence and personal appearance, I was keenly excited.
“Tell me,” I cried, “was this gentleman one of the first to land when you got to New York?”
The steward shook his head.
“No, indeed, sir, he was one of the last off the boat.”
I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note ch
anged hands, and we took our departure.
“It’s all very well,” I remarked heatedly, “but that last answer must have damned your precious theory, grin as you please!”
“As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary, the copingstone of my theory.”
I flung up my hands in despair.