“Nothing,” said the latter laconically.
“I should hope not, indeed,” said the chambermaid virtuously. “And that French hussy ought to be ashamed of herself taking away an honest girl’s character.”
“There, there, my girl; that’s all right,” said the inspector, opening the door. “Nobody suspects you. You go along and get on with your work.”
The chambermaid went unwillingly.
“Going to search her?” she demanded, pointing at Célestine.
“Yes, yes!” He shut the door on her and turned the key.
Célestine accompanied the searcher into the small room in her turn. A few minutes later she also returned. Nothing had been found on her.
The inspector’s face grew graver.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come along with me all the same, miss.” He turned to Mrs. Opalsen. “I’m sorry, madam, but all the evidence points that way. If she’s not got them on her, they’re hidden somewhere about the room.”
Célestine uttered a piercing shriek, and clung to Poirot’s arm. The latter bent and whispered something in the girl’s ear. She looked up at him doubtfully.
“Si, si, mon enfant—I assure you it is better not to resist.” Then he turned to the inspector. “You permit, monsieur? A little experiment—purely for my own satisfaction.”
“Depends on what it is,” replied the police officer noncommittally.
Poirot addressed Célestine once more.
“You have told us that you went into your room to fetch a reel of cotton. Whereabouts was it?”
“On top of the chest of drawers, monsieur.”
“And the scissors?”
“They also.”
“Would it be troubling you too much, mademoiselle, to ask you to repeat those two actions? You were sitting here with your work, you say?”
Célestine sat down, and then, at a sign from Poirot, rose, passed into the adjoining room, took up an object from the chest of drawers, and returned.
Poirot divided his attention between her movements and a large turnip of a watch which he held in the palm of his hand.
“Again, if you please, mademoiselle.”
At the conclusion of the second performance, he made a note in his pocketbook, and returned the watch to his pocket.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. And you, monsieur”—he bowed to the inspector—“for your courtesy.”
The inspector seemed somewhat entertained by this excessive politeness. Célestine departed in a flood of tears, accompanied by the woman and the plainclothes official.
Then, with a brief apology to Mrs. Opalsen, the inspector set to work to ransack the room. He pulled out drawers, opened cupboards, completely unmade the bed, and tapped the floor. Mr. Opalsen looked on sceptically.
“You really think you will find them?”
“Yes, sir. It stands to reason. She hadn’t time to take them out of the room. The lady’s discovering the robbery so soon upset her plans. No, they’re here right enough. One of the two must have hidden them—and it’s very unlikely for the chambermaid to have done so.”
“More than unlikely—impossible!” said Poirot quietly.
“Eh?” The inspector stared.
Poirot smiled modestly.
“I will demonstrate. Hastings, my good friend, take my watch in your hand—with care. It is a family heirloom! Just now I timed Mademoiselle’s movements—her first absence from the room was of twelve seconds, her second of fifteen. Now observe my actions. Madame will have the kindness to give me the key of the jewel case. I thank you. My friend Hastings will have the kindness to say ‘Go!’ ”
“Go!” I said.
With almost incredible swiftness, Poirot wrenched open the drawer of the dressing table, extracted the jewel case, fitted the key in the lock, opened the case, selected a piece of jewellery, shut and locked the case, and returned it to the drawer, which he pushed to again. His movements were like lightning.
“Well, mon ami?” he demanded of me breathlessly.
“Forty-six seconds,” I replied.
“You see?” He looked round. “There would have not been time for the chambermaid even to take the necklace out, far less hide it.”
“Then that settles it on the maid,” said the inspector with satisfaction, and returned to his search. He passed into the maid’s bedroom next door.
Poirot was frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly he shot a question at Mr. Opalsen.
“This necklace—it was, without doubt, insured?”
Mr. Opalsen looked a trifle surprised at the question.
“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, “that is so.”
“But what does that matter?” broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. “It’s my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same.”
“I comprehend, madame,” said Poirot soothingly. “I comprehend perfectly. To la femme sentiment is everything—is it not so? But, monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless find some slight consolation in the fact.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly. “Still—”
He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He came in dangling something from his fingers.
With a cry, Mrs. Opalsen heaved herself up from her chair. She was a changed woman.
“Oh, oh, my necklace!”
She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round.
“Where was it?” demanded Opalsen.
“Maid’s bed. In among the springs of the wire mattress. She must have stolen it and hidden it there before the chambermaid arrived on the scene.”
“You permit, madame?” said Poirot gently. He took the necklace from her and examined it closely; then handed it back with a bow.
“I’m afraid, madame, you’ll have to hand it over to us for the time being,” said the inspector. “We shall want it for the charge. But it shall be returned to you as soon as possible.”
Mr. Opalsen frowned.
“Is that necessary?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. Just a formality.”
“Oh, let him take it, Ed!” cired his wife. “I’d feel safer if he did. I shouldn’t sleep a wink thinking someone else might try to get hold of it. That wretched girl! And I would never have believed it of her.”
“There, there, my dear, don’t take on so.”
I felt a gentle pressure on my arm. It was Poirot.
“Shall we slip away, my friend? I think our services are no longer needed.”
Once outside, however, he hesitated, and then, much to my surprise, he remarked:
“I should rather like to see the room next door.”
The door was not locked, and we entered. The room, which was a large double one, was unoccupied. Dust lay about rather noticeably, and my sensitive friend gave a characteristic grimace as he ran his finger round a rectangular mark on a table near the
window.
“The service leaves to be desired,” he observed dryly.
He was staring thoughtfully out of the window, and seemed to have fallen into a brown study.
“Well?” I demanded impatiently. “What did we come in here for?”
He started.
“Je vous demande pardon, mon ami. I wished to see if the door was really bolted on this side also.”
“Well,” I said, glancing at the door which communicated with the room we had just left, “it is bolted.”
Poirot nodded. He still seemed to be thinking.
“And anyway,” I continued, “what does it matter? The case is over. I wish you’d had more chance of distinguishing yourself. But it was the kind of case that even a stiff-backed idiot like that inspector couldn’t go wrong over.”
Poirot shook his head.
“The case is not over, my friend. It will not be over until we find out who stole the pearls.”
“But the maid did!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why,” I stammered, “they were fo
und—actually in her mattress.”
“Ta, ta, ta!” said Poirot impatiently. “Those were not the pearls.”
“What?”
“Imitation, mon ami.”
The statement took my breath away. Poirot was smiling placidly.
“The good inspector obviously knows nothing of jewels. But presently there will be a fine hullabaloo!”
“Come!” I cried, dragging at his arm.