LITMIR.BIZ

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cook—and when you lose her, it’s as much to you as her pearls are to some fine lady.’

      For a moment or two it appeared to be a toss up between Poirot’s dignity and his sense of humour. Finally he laughed and sat down again.

      ‘Madame, you are in the right, and I am in the wrong. Your remarks are just and intelligent. This case will be a novelty. Never yet have I hunted a missing domestic. Truly here is the problem of national importance that I was demanding of fate just before your arrival. En avant! You say this jewel of a cook went out on Wednesday and did not return. That is the day before yesterday.’

      ‘Yes, it was her day out.’

      ‘But probably, madame, she has met with some accident. Have you inquired at any of the hospitals?’

      ‘That’s exactly what I thought yesterday, but this morning, if you please, she sent for her box. And not so much as a line to me! If I’d been at home, I’d not have let it go—treating me like that! But I’d just stepped out to the butcher.’

      ‘Will you describe her to me?’

      ‘She was middle-aged, stout, black hair turning grey—most respectable. She’d been ten years in her last place. Eliza Dunn, her name was.’

      ‘And you had had—no disagreement with her on the Wednesday?’

      ‘None whatsoever. That’s what makes it all so queer.’

      ‘How many servants do you keep, madame?’

      ‘Two. The house-parlourmaid, Annie, is a very nice girl. A bit forgetful and her head full of young men, but a good servant if you keep her up to her work.’

      ‘Did she and the cook get on well together?’

      ‘They had their ups and downs, of course—but on the whole, very well.’

      ‘And the girl can throw no light on the mystery?’

      ‘She says not—but you know what servants are—they all hang together.’

      ‘Well, well, we must look into this. Where did you say you resided, madame?’

      ‘At Clapham; 88 Prince Albert Road.’

      ‘Bien, madame, I will wish you good morning, and you may count upon seeing me at your residence during the course of the day.’

      Mrs Todd, for such was our new friend’s name, then took her departure. Poirot looked at me somewhat ruefully.

      ‘Well, well, Hastings, this is a novel affair that we have here. The Disappearance of the Clapham Cook! Never, never, must our friend Inspector Japp get to hear of this!’

      He then proceeded to heat an iron and carefully removed the grease spot from his grey suit by means of a piece of blotting-paper. His moustaches he regretfully postponed to another day, and we set out for Clapham.

      Prince Albert Road proved to be a street of small prim houses, all exactly alike, with neat lace curtains veiling the windows, and well-polished brass knockers on the doors.

      We rang the bell at No. 88, and the door was opened by a neat maid with a pretty face. Mrs Todd came out in the hall to greet us.

      ‘Don’t go, Annie,’ she cried. ‘This gentleman’s a detective and he’ll want to ask you some questions.’

      Annie’s face displayed a struggle between alarm and a pleasurable excitement.

      ‘I thank you, madame,’ said Poirot bowing. ‘I would like to question your maid now—and to see her alone, if I may.’

      We were shown into a small drawing-room, and when Mrs Todd, with obvious reluctance, had left the room, Poirot commenced his cross-examination.

      ‘Voyons, Mademoiselle Annie, all that you shall tell us will be of the greatest importance. You alone can shed any light on the case. Without your assistance I can do nothing.’

      The alarm vanished from the girl’s face and the pleasurable excitement became more strongly marked.

      ‘I’m sure, sir,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you anything I can.’

      ‘That is good.’ Poirot beamed approval on her. ‘Now, first of all what is your own idea? You are a girl of remarkable intelligence. That can be seen at once! What is your own explanation of Eliza’s disappearance?’

      Thus encouraged, Annie fairly flowed into excited speech.

      ‘White slavers, sir, I’ve said so all along! Cook was always warning me against them. “Don’t you sniff no scent, or eat any sweets—no matter how gentlemanly the fellow!” Those were her words to me. And now they’ve got her! I’m sure of it. As likely as not, she’s been shipped to Turkey or one of them Eastern places where I’ve heard they like them fat!’

      Poirot preserved an admirable gravity.

      ‘But in that case—and it is indeed an idea!—would she have sent for her trunk?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know, sir. She’d want her things—even in those foreign places.’

      ‘Who came for the trunk—a man?’

      ‘It was Carter Paterson, sir.’

      ‘Did you pack it?’

      ‘No, sir, it was already packed and corded.’

      ‘Ah! That’s interesting. That shows that when she left the house on Wednesday, she had already determined not to return. You see that, do you not?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’ Annie looked slightly taken aback. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But it might still have been white slavers, mightn’t it, sir? she added wistfully.

      ‘Undoubtedly!’ said Poirot gravely. He went on: ‘Did you both occupy the same bedroom?’

      ‘No, sir, we had separate rooms.’

      ‘And had Eliza expressed any dissatisfaction with her present post to you at all? Were you both happy here?’

      ‘She’d never mentioned leaving. The place is all right—’ The girl hesitated.

      ‘Speak freely,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘I shall not tell your mistress.’

      ‘Well, of course, sir, she’s a caution, Missus is. But the food’s good. Plenty of it, and no stinting. Something hot for supper, good outings, and as much frying-fat as you like. And anyway, if Eliza did want to make a change, she’d never have gone off this way, I’m sure. She’d have stayed her month. Why, Missus could have a month’s wages out of her for doing this!’

      ‘And the work, it is not too hard?’

      ‘Well, she’s particular—always poking round in corners and looking for dust. And then there’s the lodger, or paying guest as he’s always called. But that’s only breakfast and dinner, same as Master. They’re out all day in the City.’

      ‘You like your master?’

      ‘He’s all right—very quiet and a bit on the stingy side.’

      ‘You can’t remember, I suppose, the last thing Eliza said before she went out?’

      ‘Yes, I can. “If there’s any stewed peaches over from the dining-room,” she says, “we’ll have them for supper, and a bit of bacon and some fried potatoes.” Mad over stewed peaches, she was. I shouldn’t wonder if they didn’t get her that way.’

      ‘Was Wednesday her regular day out?’

      ‘Yes, she had Wednesdays and I had Thursdays.’

      Poirot asked a few more questions, then declared himself satisfied. Annie departed, and Mrs Todd hurried in, her face alight with curiosity. She had, I felt certain, bitterly resented her exclusion from the room during our conversation

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