The Incredible Theft: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie
no-trump call of yours.’
Flushed and pleased, Reggie mumbled:
‘Bit of a fluke that it came off.’
‘Oh, no, it was really a clever bit of deduction on your part. You’d deduced from the bidding exactly where the cards must be, and you played accordingly. I thought it was brilliant.’
Lady Julia rose abruptly.
‘The woman lays it on with a palette-knife,’ she thought disgustedly.
Then her eyes softened as they rested on her son. He believed it all. How pathetically young and pleased he looked. How incredibly naïve he was. No wonder he got into scrapes. He was too trusting. The truth of it was he had too sweet a nature. George didn’t understand him in the least. Men were so unsympathetic in their judgments. They forgot that they had ever been young themselves. George was much too harsh with Reggie.
Mrs Macatta had risen. Goodnights were said.
The three women went out of the room. Lord Mayfield helped himself to a drink after giving one to Sir George, then he looked up as Mr Carlile appeared at the door.
‘Get out the files and all the papers, will you, Carlile? Including the plans and the prints. The Air Marshal and I will be along shortly. We’ll just take a turn outside first, eh, George? It’s stopped raining.’
Mr Carlile, turning to depart, murmured an apology as he almost collided with Mrs Vanderlyn.
She drifted towards them, murmuring:
‘My book, I was reading it before dinner.’
Reggie sprang forward and held up a book.
‘Is this it? On the sofa?’
‘Oh, yes. Thank you so much.’
She smiled sweetly, said goodnight again and went out of the room.
Sir George had opened one of the french windows.
‘Beautiful night now,’ he announced. ‘Good idea of yours to take a turn.’
Reggie said:
‘Well, goodnight, sir. I’ll be toddling off to bed.’
‘Goodnight, my boy,’ said Lord Mayfield.
Reggie picked up a detective story which he had begun earlier in the evening and left the room.
Lord Mayfield and Sir George stepped out upon the terrace.
It was a beautiful night, with a clear sky studded with stars.
Sir George drew a deep breath.
‘Phew, that woman uses a lot of scent,’ he remarked.
Lord Mayfield laughed.
‘Anyway, it’s not cheap scent. One of the most expensive brands on the market, I should say.’
Sir George gave a grimace.
‘I suppose one should be thankful for that.’
‘You should, indeed. I think a woman smothered in cheap scent is one of the greatest abominations known to mankind.’
Sir George glanced up at the sky.
‘Extraordinary the way it’s cleared. I heard the rain beating down when we were at dinner.’
The two men strolled gently along the terrace.
The terrace ran the whole length of the house. Below it the ground sloped gently away, permitting a magnificent view over the Sussex weald.
Sir George lit a cigar.
‘About this metal alloy –’ he began.
The talk became technical.
As they approached the far end of the terrace for the fifth time, Lord Mayfield said with a sigh:
‘Oh, well, I suppose we’d better get down to it.’
‘Yes, good bit of work to get through.’
The two men turned, and Lord Mayfield uttered a surprised ejaculation.
‘Hallo! See that?’
‘See what?’ asked Sir George.
‘Thought I saw someone slip across the terrace from my study window.’
‘Nonsense, old boy. I didn’t see anything.’
‘Well, I did – or I thought I did.’
‘Your eyes are playing tricks on you. I was looking straight down the terrace, and I’d have seen anything there was to be seen. There’s precious little I don’t see – even if I do have to hold a newspaper at arm’s length.’
Lord Mayfield chuckled.
‘I can put one over on you there, George. I read easily without glasses.’
‘But you can’t always distinguish the fellow on the other side of the House. Or is that eyeglass of yours sheer intimidation?’
Laughing, the two men entered Lord Mayfield’s study, the french window of which was open.
Mr Carlile was busy arranging some papers in a file by the safe.
He looked up as they entered.
‘Ha, Carlile, everything ready?’
‘Yes, Lord Mayfield, all the papers are on your desk.’
The desk in question was a big important-looking writing-table of mahogany set across a corner by the window. Lord Mayfield went over to it, and began sorting through the various documents laid out.
‘Lovely night now,’ said Sir George.
Mr Carlile agreed.
‘Yes, indeed. Remarkable the way it’s cleared up after the rain.’
Putting away his file, Mr Carlile asked:
‘Will you want me any more tonight, Lord Mayfield?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Carlile. I’ll put all these away myself. We shall probably be late. You’d better turn in.’
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Lord Mayfield. Goodnight, Sir George.’
‘Goodnight, Carlile.’
As the secretary was about to leave the room, Lord Mayfield said sharply:
‘Just a minute, Carlile. You’ve forgotten the most important of the lot.’
‘I beg your pardon, Lord Mayfield.’
‘The actual plans of the bomber, man.’
The secretary stared.
‘They’re right on the top, sir.’
‘They’re nothing of the sort.’
‘But I’ve just put them there.’
‘Look for yourself, man.’
With a bewildered expression, the young man came forward and joined Lord Mayfield at the desk.
Somewhat impatiently the Minister indicated the pile of papers. Carlile sorted through them, his expression of bewilderment growing.
‘You see, they’re not there.’
The secretary stammered:
‘But – but it’s incredible. I laid them there not three minutes ago.’
Lord Mayfield said good-humouredly:
‘You must have made a mistake, they must be still in the safe.’
‘I don’t see how – I know I put them there!’
Lord Mayfield brushed past him to the open safe. Sir George joined them. A very few minutes sufficed to show that