[Illustration]



                     THE PLYMOUTH EXPRESS AFFAIR



    “The little gray cells,” so often referred to by the great

    detective Hercule Poirot, certainly get in their fine-work

    in this intriguing mystery story by an exceptionally

    talented writer.



                          By Agatha Christie





Alec Simpson, R. N., stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a

first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him

with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but

the young sailor stopped him.



“No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.”



“Thank you, sir.” The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.



Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change for

Torquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drew

slowly out of the station.



Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was

chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and

frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in

hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!



He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back

to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a

little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.



At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some

papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavored to

shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some hidden obstacle

resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still

stuck out halfway into the carriage.



“Why the devil wont it go in?” he muttered, and hauling it out

completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat....



A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came

to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the

communication-cord.



                  *       *       *       *       *



“Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You have, I know, been deeply interested in

this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.”



I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief

and to the point.



    Dear Sir:



    I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your

    earliest convenience.



                                Yours faithfully,

                                      Ebenezer Halliday.



The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at

Poirot. For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud:



“‘A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer

returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment, the

body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled

the communication-cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. The

woman who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not

yet been identified.’



“And later we have this: ‘The woman found dead in the Plymouth Express

has been identified as the Honorable Mrs. Rupert Carrington.’ You see

now, my friend? Or if you do not, I will add this. Mrs. Rupert

Carrington was, before her marriage, Flossie Halliday, daughter of old

man Halliday, the steel king of America.”



“And he has sent for you? Splendid!”



“I did him a little service in the past—an affair of bearer bonds. And

once, when I was in Paris for a royal visit, I had Mademoiselle

Flossie pointed out to me. _La jolie petite pensionnaire!_ She had the

_jolie dot_ too! It caused trouble. She nearly made a bad affair.”



“How was that?”



“A certain Count de la Rochefour. _Un bien mauvais sujet!_ A bad hat,

as you would say. An adventurer pure and simple, who knew how to

appeal to a romantic young girl. Luckily her father got wind of it in

time. He took her back to America in haste. I heard of her marriage

some years later, but I know nothing of her husband.”



“H’m,” I said. “The Honorable Rupert Carrington is no beauty, by all

accounts. He’d pretty well run through his own money on the turf, and

I should imagine old man Halliday’s dollars came along in the nick of

time. I should say that for a good-looking, well-mannered, utterly

unscrupulous young scoundrel, it would be hard to find his match!”



“Ah, the poor little lady! _Elle n’est pas bien tombée!_”



“I fancy he made it pretty obvious at once that it was her money, and

not she, that had attracted him. I believe they drifted apart almost

at once. I have heard rumors lately that there was to be a definite

legal separation.”



“Old man Halliday is no fool. He would tie up her money pretty tight.”



“I dare say. Anyway, I know as a fact that the Honorable Rupert is

said to be extremely hard up.”



“Ah-ha! I wonder—”



“You wonder what?”



“My good friend, do not jump down my throat like that. You are

interested, I see. Supposing you accompany me to see Mr. Halliday.

There is a taxi stand at the corner.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



A very few minutes sufficed to whirl us to the superb house in Park

Lane rented by the American magnate. We were shown into the library,

and almost immediately we were joined by a large, stout man, with

piercing eyes and an aggressive chin.



“M. Poirot?” said Mr. Halliday. “I guess I don’t need to tell you what

I want you for. You’ve read the papers, and I’m never one to let the

grass grow under my feet. I happened to hear you were in London, and I

remembered the good work you did over those bonds. Never forget a

name. I’ve got the pick of Scotland Yard, but I’ll have my own man as

well. Money no object. All the dollars were made for my little

girl—and now she’s gone, I’ll spend my last cent to catch the damned

scoundrel that did it! See? So it’s up to you to deliver the goods.”



Poirot bowed.



“I accept, monsieur, all the more willingly that I saw your daughter

in Paris several times. And now I will ask you to tell me the

circumstances of her journey to Plymouth and any other details that

seem to you to bear upon the case.”



“Well, to begin with,” responded Halliday, “she wasn’t going to

Plymouth. She was going to join a house-party at Avonmead Court, the

Duchess of Swansea’s place. She left London by the twelve-fourteen

from Paddington, arriving at Bristol (where she had to change) at

two-fifty. The principal Plymouth expresses, of course, run via

Westbury, and do not go near Bristol at all. The twelve-fourteen does

a nonstop run to Bristol, afterward stopping at Weston, Taunton,

Exeter and Newton Abbot. My daughter traveled alone in her carriage,

which was reserved as far as Bristol, her maid being in a third-class

carriage in the next coach.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



Poirot nodded, and Mr. Halliday went on: “The party at Avonmead Court

was to be a very gay one, with several balls, and in consequence my

daughter had with her nearly all her jewels—amounting in value

perhaps, to about a hundred thousand dollars.”



“_Un moment_,” interrupted Poirot. “Who had charge of the jewels? Your

daughter, or the maid?”



“My daughter always took charge of them herself, carrying them in a

small blue morocco case.”



“Continue, monsieur.”



“At Bristol the maid, Jane Mason, collected her mistress’ dressing-bag

and wraps, which were with her, and came to the door of Flossie’s

compartment. To her intense surprise, my daughter told her that she

was not getting out at Bristol, but was going on farther. She directed

Mason to get out the luggage and put it in the cloak-room. She could

have tea in the refreshment-room, but she was to wait at the station

for her mistress, who would return to Bristol by an up-train in the

course of the afternoon. The maid, although very much astonished, did

as she was told. She put the luggage in the cloak-room and had some

tea. But up-train after up-train came in, and her mistress did not

appear. After the arrival of the last train, she left the luggage

where it was, and went to a hotel near the station for the night. This

morning she read of the tragedy, and returned to town by the first

available train.”



“Is there nothing to account for your daughter’s sudden change of

plan?”



“Well, there is this: According to Jane Mason, at Bristol, Flossie was

no longer alone in her carriage. There was a man in it who stood

looking out of the farther window so that she could not see his face.”



“The train was a corridor one, of course?”



“Yes.”



“Which side was the corridor?”



“On the platform side. My daughter was standing in the corridor as she

talked to Mason.”



“And there is no doubt in your mind—excuse me!” He got up, and

carefully straightened the inkstand which was a little askew. “_Je

vous demande pardon_,” he continued, reseating himself. “It affects my

nerves to see anything crooked. Strange, is it not? I was saying,

monsieur, that there is no doubt in your mind, as to this probably

unexpected meeting being the cause of your daughter’s sudden change of

plan?”



“It seems the only reasonable supposition.”



“You have no idea as to who the gentleman in question might be?”



The millionaire hesitated for a moment, and then replied.



“No—I do not know at all.”



“Now—as to the discovery of the body?”



“It was discovered by a young naval officer who at once gave the

alarm. There was a doctor on the train. He examined the body. She had

been first chloroformed, and then stabbed. He gave it as his opinion

that she had been dead about four hours, so it must have been done not

long after leaving Bristol. —Probably between there and Weston,

possibly between Weston and Taunton.”



“And the jewel-case.”



“The jewel-case, M. Poirot, was missing.”



“One thing more, monsieur. Your daughter’s fortune—to whom does it

pass at her death?”



“Flossie made a will soon after her marriage, leaving everything to

her husband.” He hesitated for a minute, and then went on: “I may as

well tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that I regard my son-in-law as an

unprincipled scoundrel, and that, by my advice, my daughter was on the

eve of freeing herself from him by legal means—no difficult matter. I

settled her money upon her in such a way that he could not touch it

during her lifetime, but although they have lived entirely apart for

some years, she has frequently acceded to his demands for money,

rather than face an open scandal. However, I was determined to put an

end to this, and at last Flossie agreed, and my lawyers were

instructed to take proceedings.”



“And where is Monsieur Carrington?”



“In town. I believe he was away in the country yesterday, but he

returned last night.”



Poirot considered a little while. Then he said: “I think that is all,

monsieur.”



“You would like to see the maid, Jane Mason?”



“If you please.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



Halliday rang the bell, and gave a short order to the footman. A few

minutes later Jane Mason entered the room, a respectable,

hard-featured woman, as emotionless in the face of tragedy as only a

good servant can be.



“You will permit me to put a few questions? Your mistress, she was

quite as usual before starting yesterday morning? Not excited or

flurried?”



“Oh, no sir!”



“But at Bristol she was quite different?”



“Yes sir, regular upset—so nervous she didn’t seem to know what she

was saying.”



“What did she say exactly?”



“Well sir, as near as I can remember, she said: ‘Mason, I’ve got to

alter my plans. Something has happened—I mean, I’m not getting out

here after all. I must go on. Get out the luggage and put it in the

cloak-room; then have some tea, and wait for me in the station.’



“‘Wait for you here, ma’am?’ I asked.



“‘Yes, yes. Don’t leave the station. I shall return by a later train.

I don’t know when. It mayn’t be until quite late.’



“‘Very well, ma’am,’ I says. It wasn’t my place to ask questions, but

I thought it very strange.”



“It was unlike your mistress, eh?”



“Very unlike her, sir.”



“What did you think?”



“Well sir, I thought it was to do with the gentleman in the carriage.

She didn’t speak to him, but she turned round once or twice as though

to ask him if she was doing right.”



“But you didn’t see the gentleman’s face?”



“No sir; he stood with his back to me all the time.”



“Can you describe him at all?”



“He had on a light fawn overcoat, and a traveling cap. He was tall and

slender, like, and the back of his head was dark.”



“You didn’t know him?”



“Oh, no, I don’t think so, sir.”



“It was not your master, Mr. Carrington, by any chance?”



Mason looked rather startled.



“Oh! I don’t think so, sir!”



“But you are not _sure_?”



“It was about the master’s build, sir—but I never thought of it being

him. We so seldom saw him. I couldn’t say it _wasn’t_ him!”



Poirot picked up a pin from the carpet, and frowned at it severely;

then he continued: “Would it be possible for the man to have entered

the train at Bristol before you reached the carriage?”



Mason considered.



“Yes sir, I think it would. My compartment was very crowded, and it

was some minutes before I could get out—and then there was a very

large crowd on the platform, and that delayed me too. But he’d only

have had a minute or two to speak to the mistress, that way. I took it

for granted that he’d come along the corridor.”



“That is more probable, certainly.”



He paused, still frowning.



“You know how the mistress was dressed, sir?”



“The papers give a few details, but I would like you to confirm them.”



“She was wearing a white fox fur toque, sir, with a white spotted

veil, and a blue frieze coat and skirt—the shade of blue they call

electric.”



“H’m, rather striking.”



“Yes,” remarked Halliday. “Inspector Japp is in hopes that that may

help us to fix the spot where the crime took place. Anyone who saw her

would remember her.”



“_Précisément!_ —Thank you, mademoiselle.” The maid left the room.



“Well!” Poirot got up briskly. “That is all I can do here—except,

monsieur, that I would ask you to tell me everything—but

_everything_!”



“I have done so.”



“You are sure?”



“Absolutely.”



“Then there is nothing more to be said. I must decline the case.”



“Why?”



“Because you have not been frank with me.”



“I assure you—”



“No, you are keeping something back.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



There was a moment’s pause, and then Halliday drew a paper from his

pocket and handed it to my friend.



“I guess that’s what you’re after, Monsieur Poirot—though how you know

about it fairly gets my goat!”



Poirot smiled, and unfolded the paper. It was a letter written in thin

sloping handwriting. Poirot read it aloud.



    “‘Chère Madame:



    “‘It is with infinite pleasure that I look forward to the

    felicity of meeting you again. After your so amiable reply to

    my letter, I can hardly restrain my impatience. I have never

    forgotten those days in Paris. It is most cruel that you

    should be leaving London tomorrow. However, before very long,

    and perhaps sooner than you think, I shall have the joy of

    beholding once more the lady whose image has ever reigned

    supreme in my heart.



    “‘Believe, chère madame, all the assurances of my most devoted

    and unaltered sentiments—



                                        “‘Armand de la Rochefour.’”



Poirot handed the letter back to Halliday with a bow.



“I fancy, monsieur, that you did not know that your daughter intended

renewing her acquaintance with the Count de la Rochefour?”



“It came as a thunderbolt to me! I found this letter in my daughter’s

handbag. As you probably know, Monsieur Poirot, this so-called count

is an adventurer of the worst type.”



Poirot nodded.



“But what I want to know is how you knew of the existence of this

letter?”



My friend smiled. “Monsieur, I did not. But to track footmarks, and

recognize cigarette-ash is not sufficient for a detective. He must

also be a good psychologist! I knew that you disliked and mistrusted

your son-in-law. He benefits by your daughter’s death; the maid’s

description of the mysterious man bears a sufficient resemblance to

him. Yet you are not keen on his track! Why? Surely because your

suspicions lie in another direction. Therefore you were keeping

something back.”



“You’re right, Monsieur Poirot. I was sure of Rupert’s guilt until I

found this letter. It unsettled me horribly.”



“Yes. The Count says: ‘Before very long, and perhaps sooner than you

think.’ Obviously he would not want to wait until you should get wind

of his reappearance. Was it he who traveled down from London by the

twelve-fourteen, and came along the corridor to your daughter’s

compartment? The Count de la Rochefour is also, if I remember rightly,

tall and dark!”



The millionaire nodded.



“Well, monsieur, I will wish you good day. Scotland Yard, has, I

presume, a list of the jewels?”



“Yes, I believe Inspector Japp is here now if you would like to see

him.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



Japp was an old friend of ours, and greeted Poirot with a sort of

affectionate contempt.



“And how are you, monsieur? No bad feeling between us, though we

_have_ got our different ways of looking at things. How are the

‘little gray cells,’ eh? Going strong?”



Poirot beamed upon him. “They function, my good Japp; assuredly they

do!”



“Then that’s all right. Think it was the Honorable Rupert, or a crook?

We’re keeping an eye on all the regular places, of course. We shall

know if the shiners are disposed of, and of course whoever did it

isn’t going to keep them to admire their sparkle. Not likely! I’m

trying to find out where Rupert Carrington was yesterday. Seems a bit

of a mystery about it. I’ve got a man watching him.”



“A great precaution, but perhaps a day late,” suggested Poirot gently.



“You always will have your joke, Monsieur Poirot. Well, I’m off to

Paddington. Bristol, Weston, Taunton, that’s my beat. So long.”



“You will come round and see me this evening, and tell me the result?”



“Sure thing, if I’m back.”



“That good Inspector believes in matter in motion,” murmured Poirot as

our friend departed. “He travels; he measures footprints; he collects

mud and cigarette-ash! He is extremely busy! He is zealous beyond

words! And if I mentioned psychology to him, do you know what he would

do, my friend? He would smile! He would say to himself: ‘Poor old

Poirot! He ages! He grows senile!’ Japp is the ‘younger generation

knocking on the door.’ And _ma foi!_ They are so busy knocking that

they do not notice that the door is open!”



“And what are you going to do?”



“As we have _carte blanche_, I shall expend threepence in ringing up

the Ritz—where you may have noticed our Count is staying. After that,

as my feet are a little damp, and I have sneezed twice, I shall return

to my rooms and make myself a _tisano_ over the spirit lamp!”



                  *       *       *       *       *



I did not see Poirot again until the following morning. I found him

placidly finishing his breakfast.



“Well?” I inquired eagerly. “What has happened?”



“Nothing.”



“But Japp?”



“I have not seen him.”



“The Count?”



“He left the Ritz the day before yesterday.”



“The day of the murder?”



“Yes.”



“Then that settles it! Rupert Carrington is cleared.”



“Because the Count de la Rochefour has left the Ritz? You go too fast,

my friend.”



“Anyway, he must be followed, arrested! But what could be his motive?”



“One hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry is a very good motive

for anyone. No, the question to my mind is: why kill her? Why not

simply steal the jewels? She would not prosecute.”



“Why not?”



“Because she is a woman, _mon ami_. She once loved this man. Therefore

she would suffer her loss in silence. And the Count, who is an

extremely good psychologist where women are concerned,—hence his

successes,—would know that perfectly well! On the other hand, if

Rupert Carrington killed her, why take the jewels, which would

incriminate him fatally?”



“As a blind.”



“Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his

knock.”



The Inspector was beaming good-humoredly.



“Morning, Poirot. Only just got back. I’ve done some good work! And

you?”



“Me, I have arranged my ideas,” replied Poirot placidly.



Japp laughed heartily.



“Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to

me. “That wont do for us young folk,” he said aloud.



“_Quel dommage?_” Poirot inquired.



“Well, do you want to hear what I’ve done?”



“You permit me to make a guess? You have found the knife with which

the crime was committed by the side of the line between Weston and

Taunton, and you have interviewed the paper-boy who spoke to Mrs.

Carrington at Weston!”



                  *       *       *       *       *



Japp’s jaw fell. “How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was

those almighty ‘little gray cells’ of yours!”



“I am glad you admit for once that they are _all mighty_! Tell me, did

she give the paper-boy a shilling for himself?”



“No, it was half a crown!” Japp recovered his temper and grinned.

“Pretty extravagant, these rich Americans!”



“And in consequence the boy did not forget her?”



“Not he. Half-crowns don’t come his way every day. She hailed him and

bought two magazines. One had a picture of a girl in blue on the

cover. ‘That’ll match me,’ she said. Oh! he remembered her perfectly.

Well, that was enough for me. By the doctor’s evidence, the crime

_must_ have been committed before Taunton. I guessed they’d throw the

knife away at once, and I walked down the line looking for it; and

sure enough, there it was. I made inquiries at Taunton about our man,

but of course it’s a big station, and it wasn’t likely they’d notice

him. He probably got back to London by a later train.”



Poirot nodded. “Very likely.”



“But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the

jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of

the regular lot. Who do you think it was?”



“I don’t know—except that he was a short man.”



Japp stared. “Well, you’re right there. He’s short enough. It was Red

Narky.”



“Who on earth is Red Narky?” I asked.



“A particularly sharp jewel-thief, sir. And not one to stick at

murder. Usually works with a woman—Gracie Kidd; but she doesn’t seem

to be in it this time—unless she’s got off to Holland with the rest of

the swag.”



“You’ve arrested Narky?”



“Sure thing. But mind you, it’s the other man we want—the man who went

down with Mrs. Carrington in the train. He was the one who planned the

job, right enough. But Narky wont squeal on a pal.”



I noticed that Poirot’s eyes had become very green.



“I think,” he said gently, “that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all

right.”



“One of your little ideas, eh?” Japp eyed Poirot sharply. “Wonderful

how you manage to deliver the goods sometimes, at your age and all.

Devil’s own luck, of course.”



“Perhaps, perhaps,” murmured my friend. “Hastings, my hat. And the

brush. So! My galoshes if it still rains! We must not undo the good

work of that _tisano_. Au revoir, Japp!”



“Good luck to you, Poirot.”



Poirot hailed the first taxi we met, and directed the driver to Park

Lane.



                  *       *       *       *       *



When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid

the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he

made a request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs.

We went up to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat

bedroom.



Poirot’s eyes roved round the room and fastened themselves on a small

black trunk. He knelt in front of it, scrutinized the labels on it,

and took a small twist of wire from his pocket.



“Ask Mr. Halliday if he will be so kind as to mount to me here,” he

said over his shoulder to the footman.



(It is suggested that the reader pause in his perusal of the story at

this point, make his own solution of the mystery—and then see how

close he comes to that of the author.—The Editors.)



The man departed, and Poirot gently coaxed the lock of the trunk with

a practiced hand. In a few minutes the lock gave, and he raised the

lid of the trunk. Swiftly he began rummaging among the clothes it

contained, flinging them out on the floor.



There was a heavy step on the stairs, and Halliday entered the room.



“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.



“I was looking, monsieur, for _this_.” Poirot withdrew from the trunk

a coat and skirt of bright blue frieze, and a small toque of white fox

fur.



“What are you doing with my trunk?” I turned to see that the maid,

Jane Mason, had just entered the room.



“If you will just shut the door, Hastings. Thank you. Yes, and stand

with your back against it. Now, Mr. Halliday, let me introduce you to

Grace Kidd, otherwise Jane Mason, who will shortly rejoin her

accomplice, Red Narky, under the kind escort of Japp.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



“It was of the most simple.” Poirot waved a deprecating hand, then

helped himself to more caviare. It is not every day that one lunches

with a millionaire.



“It was the maid’s insistence on the clothes that her mistress was

wearing that first struck me. Why was she so anxious that our

attention should be directed to them? I reflected that we had only the

maid’s word for the mysterious man in the carriage at Bristol. As far

as the doctor’s evidence went, Mrs. Carrington might easily have been

murdered _before_ reaching Bristol. But if so, then the maid must be

an accomplice. And if she were an accomplice, she would not wish this

point to rest on her evidence alone. The clothes Mrs. Carrington was

wearing were of a striking nature. A maid usually has a good deal of

choice as to what her mistress shall wear. Now if, after Bristol,

anyone saw a lady in a bright blue coat and skirt, and a fur toque, he

will be quite ready to swear he has seen Mrs. Carrington.



“I began to reconstruct. The maid would provide herself with duplicate

clothes. She and her accomplice chloroform and stab Mrs. Carrington

between London and Bristol, probably taking advantage of a tunnel. Her

body is rolled under the seat; the maid takes her place. At Weston she

must make herself noticed. How? In all probability, a newspaper-boy

will be selected. She will insure his remembering her by giving him a

large tip. She also drew his attention to the color of her dress by a

remark about one of the magazines. After leaving Weston, she throws

the knife out of the window to mark the place where the crime

presumably occurred, and changes her clothes, or buttons a long

mackintosh over them. At Taunton she leaves the train and returns to

Bristol as soon as possible, where her accomplice has duly left the

luggage in the cloak-room. He hands over the ticket and himself

returns to London. She waits on the platform, carrying out her rôle,

goes to a hotel for the night and returns to town in the morning

exactly as she said.



“When Japp returned from his expedition, he confirmed all my

deductions. He also told me that a well-known crook was passing the

jewels. I knew that whoever it was would be the exact opposite of the

man Jane Mason described. When I heard that it was Red Narky, who

always worked with Gracie Kidd—well, I knew just where to find her.”



“And the Count?”



“The more I thought of it, the more I was convinced that he had

nothing to do with it. That gentleman is much too careful of his own

skin to risk murder. It would be out of keeping with his character.”



“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Halliday. “I owe you a big debt. And the

check I write after lunch wont go near to settling it.”



Poirot smiled modestly, and murmured to me: “The good Japp, he shall

get the official credit, all right, but though he has got his Gracie

Kidd, I think that I, as the Americans say, have got his goat!”





[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 1924

issue of The Blue Book Magazine.]