[adapted]

by
Agatha Christie

So far, in the cases I have written down, Poirot’s work has started from the main fact, whether it was murder or robbery, and has gone on from there by clear, step-by-step thinking to the final, successful solving of the case. In the events I am now going to tell, a surprising chain of events led from the things that seemed small and unimportant, which first caught Poirot’s attention, to the dark events which completed a very unusual case.

I spent the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald Parker. There were, perhaps, about six people there besides my host and me, and the talk soon turned, as it always did sooner or later when Parker was there, to looking for a home in London. Houses and apartments were Parker’s special hobby. Since the end of the War, he had lived in at least six different apartments and small houses. As soon as he was settled anywhere, he would suddenly find a new place, and he would leave at once with all his bags and things.

His moves were almost always done with a small money gain, because he was good at business, but it was pure love of the game that made him do it, and not a wish to make money from it. We listened to Parker for some time with the respect a beginner has for an expert. Then it was our turn, and a wild mix of voices suddenly burst out. Finally, the chance to speak was given to Mrs. Robinson, a lovely young bride who was there with her husband. I had never met them before, because Robinson was only a new friend of Parker.

“Speaking of flats,” she said, “have you heard about our good luck, Mr. Parker? We have a flat — at last! In Montagu Mansions.”
“Well,” said Parker, “I have always said there are many flats — but they cost a lot!”
“Yes, but this one does not cost a lot. It is very cheap. Eighty pounds a year!”

“But — but Montagu Mansions is near Knightsbridge, isn’t it? A big, nice building. Or are you talking about a poor place with the same name in a very poor area somewhere?”
“No, it is the Knightsbridge one. That is why it is so wonderful.”

“Wonderful is the word! It is a real miracle. But there must be a hidden problem somewhere. A big extra fee, I suppose?”
“No extra fee!”
“No extra fee — oh, someone hold my head!” groaned Parker.

“But we have to buy the furniture,” said Mrs. Robinson.
“Ah!” Parker looked excited. “I knew there was a trick!”
“For fifty pounds. And it has beautiful furniture!”
“I give up,” said Parker. “The people living there now must be crazy people who like charity.”

Mrs. Robinson was looking a little worried. A small line appeared between her neat eyebrows.

“It is strange, isn’t it? You don’t think that — that — the place is haunted?”
“I have never heard of a haunted apartment,” said Parker firmly.
“No.” Mrs. Robinson still did not seem sure. “But there were several things about it all that seemed to me — well, strange.”

“For example — ” I suggested.

“Ah,” said Parker, “our crime expert is paying attention now! Tell him everything, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is very good at solving mysteries.”

I laughed, embarrassed but not completely unhappy with the role given to me.

“Oh, not really strange, Captain Hastings, but when we went to the agents, Stosser and Paul — we had not tried them before because they only have the expensive Mayfair flats, but we thought, anyway, it would not do any harm — everything they offered us was four or five hundred a year, or else very big extra payments, and then, just as we were leaving, they said that they had a flat at eighty, but they doubted if it would be any good for us to go there, because it had been on their books for some time and they had sent so many people to see it that it was almost sure to be taken — ‘snapped up,’ as the clerk said — only people were so annoying in not letting them know, and then they went on sending people, and people get annoyed at being sent to a place that had, perhaps, been let for some time.”

Mrs. Robinson paused to catch her breath, and then continued: “We thanked him, and said that we understood it would probably not be any good, but that we would like an order all the same — just in case. And we went there straight away in a taxi, because, after all, you never know. Number 4 was on the second floor, and just as we were waiting for the lift, Elsie Ferguson — she is a friend of mine, Captain Hastings, and they are looking for a flat too — came hurrying down the stairs. ‘Ahead of you for once, my dear,’ she said. ‘But it is no good. It is already rented.’ That seemed to finish it, but — well, as John said, the place was very cheap, we could afford to pay more, and perhaps if we offered a premium. — A horrible thing to do, of course, and I feel quite ashamed to tell you, but you know what flat-hunting is.”

I told her that I knew very well that in the fight for a place to live, the worse side of people often won over the better side, and that the well-known rule of dog eat dog always was true.

“So we went up, and, would you believe it, the apartment was not rented at all. The maid showed us around it, then we saw the owner, and we agreed right away. We could have it at once, and it was fifty pounds for the furniture. We signed the contract the next day, and we are going to move in tomorrow!” Mrs. Robinson paused proudly.

“And what about Mrs. Ferguson?” asked Parker. “Tell us what you think, Hastings.”
“‘Obvious, my dear Watson,’” I said lightly. “She went to the wrong flat.”
“Oh, Captain Hastings, how clever of you!” said Mrs. Robinson in an admiring way.

I really wished Poirot was there. Sometimes I have the feeling that he thinks I am not very good at things.

The whole thing was quite funny, and I gave the thing as a pretend problem to Poirot on the next morning. He seemed interested, and asked me many careful questions about the rents of flats in different areas.

“A strange story,” he said, thinking. “Excuse me, Hastings, I must take a short walk.”

When he came back, about an hour later, his eyes were shining with a strange excitement. He put his stick on the table, and brushed the soft cloth of his hat with his usual gentle care before he spoke.

“It is good, my friend, that we have no important matters on hand now. We can give all our time to this investigation.”
“What investigation are you talking about?”
“The very low price of your friend, Mrs. Robinson’s, new flat.”

“Poirot, you are not serious!”
“I am very serious. Imagine, my friend, that the real rent of those flats is £350. I have just found this out from the landlord’s agents. And yet this particular flat is being rented to someone else at eighty pounds! Why?”

“There must be something wrong with it. Maybe it is haunted, as Mrs. Robinson said.”

Poirot shook his head, not happy. “Then again, how strange it is that her friend tells her the flat is rented, and, when she goes up, look, it is not so at all!”
“But surely you agree with me that the other woman must have gone to the wrong flat. That is the only possible answer.”

“You may be right or wrong about that, Hastings. But the fact is that many other people who wanted to rent it were told to go and see it, and still, even though it was very cheap, it was still for sale when Mrs. Robinson came.”
“That shows that there must be something wrong with it.”

“Mrs. Robinson did not seem to notice that anything was wrong. Very strange, isn’t it? Did she seem to you to be an honest woman, Hastings?”
“She was a very lovely woman!”
“Obviously! Since she makes you unable to answer my question. Describe her to me, then.”
“Well, she is tall and fair; her hair is a really beautiful reddish-brown color — ”

“You have always liked red-brown hair!” said Poirot quietly. “But continue.”

“Blue eyes and very nice skin and — well, that’s all, I think,” I finished in a weak way.
“And her husband?”
“Oh, he’s quite a nice man — nothing special.”
“Dark or fair?”
“I don’t know — in between, and just an ordinary kind of face.”

Poirot nodded. “Yes, there are hundreds of these average men — and, anyway, you show more kindness and liking when you describe women. Do you know anything about these people? Does Parker know them well?”
“They are only people we met recently, I believe. But surely, Poirot, you do not think for a moment — ”

Poirot raised his hand. “Slowly, my friend. Did I say I think anything? All I say is: it is a strange story. And there is nothing to explain it, except maybe the lady’s name, eh, Hastings?”

“Her name is Stella,” I said coldly, “but I don’t understand — ”

Poirot stopped me with a big laugh. Something seemed to amuse him very much. “And Stella means a star, doesn’t it? Great!”
“What on earth —”
“And stars give light! There! Calm down, Hastings. Do not act offended. Come, we will go to Montagu Mansions and ask a few questions.”

I went with him, happy to go. The Mansions were a nice block of buildings in very good condition. A porter in uniform was sitting in the sun at the door, and Poirot spoke to him:
“Excuse me, but could you tell me if a Mr. and Mrs. Robinson live here?”

The porter was a man who did not say much and seemed cross or suspicious. He hardly looked at us and said in a rough voice: “No. 4. Second floor.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me how long they have been here?”
“Six months.”

I moved forward in surprise, and as I did so I noticed Poirot’s mean smile.
“Impossible,” I shouted. “You must be making a mistake.”
“Six months.”

“Are you sure? The lady I mean is tall and very blond, with red-gold hair, and — ”
“That’s her,” said the porter. “They came in late September, they did. Just six months ago.”

He seemed to stop caring about us and went back slowly up the hall. I followed Poirot outside.

“Well, Hastings?” my friend asked in a sly way. “Are you so sure now that lovely women always tell the truth?”

I did not reply.

Poirot had driven the car into Brompton Road before I asked him what he was going to do and where we were going.

“Let’s go to the house agents, Hastings. I really want very much to have a flat in Montagu Mansions. If I am not wrong, several interesting things will happen there very soon.”

We were lucky in our search. Number 8, on the fourth floor, could be rented with furniture for ten guineas a week. Poirot quickly rented it for a month.

Outside in the street again, he stopped my protests: “But I make money these days! Why should I not do something I want, just for fun? By the way, Hastings, do you have a revolver?”
“Yes — somewhere,” I answered, a little excited. “Do you think — ”
“That you will need it? It is quite possible. I see you like the idea. You always like things that are exciting and romantic.”

The next day we moved into our temporary home. The flat had nice furniture. It was in the same place in the building as the Robinsons’ flat, but it was two floors higher.

The day after we moved in was a Sunday. In the afternoon, Poirot left the front door half open, and called me quickly as a bang echoed from somewhere below.
“Look over the stair rail. Are those your friends? Do not let them see you.”

I stretched my neck to look over the stairs.

“That’s them,” I said in a whisper, not speaking correctly.
“Good. Wait awhile.”

About thirty minutes later, a young woman came out in bright and colorful clothes. With a happy sigh, Poirot walked quietly back into the flat.

“That’s it. After the master and the mistress, the maid. The apartment should now be empty.”

“What are we going to do?” I asked, feeling worried.

Poirot walked quickly into the small kitchen and was pulling the rope of the coal lift.
“We are going to go down like the dustbins,” he said happily. “No one will see us. The Sunday concert, the Sunday ‘afternoon out,’ and finally the Sunday nap after the Sunday dinner of England — the roast beef — all these will take attention away from the actions of Hercule Poirot. Come, my friend.”

He stepped into the rough wooden thing and I followed him carefully.

“Are we going to break into the apartment?” I asked uncertainly.
Poirot’s answer was not very comforting: “Not exactly today,” he replied.