seemed, to Hercule Poirot, to be no answer to the question other than a meticulous and painstaking description embracing Pasteur, Lister, Humphry Davy’s safety lamp—the convenience of electricity in the home and several hundred other kindred items. But that, naturally, was not the answer Mrs Lionel Cloade wanted. In actual fact her question, like so many questions, was not really a question at all. It was a mere rhetorical gesture.
Hercule Poirot contented himself with inquiring in a practical manner:
‘In what way do you believe I can help you, Mrs Cloade?’
‘Do you believe in the reality of the spirit world, M. Poirot?’
‘I am a good Catholic,’ said Poirot cautiously.
Mrs Cloade waved aside the Catholic faith with a smile of pity.
‘Blind! The Church is blind—prejudiced, foolish—not welcoming the reality and beauty of the world that lies behind this one.’
‘At twelve o’clock,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘I have an important appointment.’
It was a well-timed remark. Mrs Cloade leaned forward.
‘I must come to the point at once. Would it be possible for you, M. Poirot, to find a missing person?’
Poirot’s eyebrows rose.
‘It might be possible—yes,’ he replied cautiously. ‘But the police, my dear Mrs Cloade, could do so a great deal more easily than I could. They have all the necessary machinery.’
Mrs Cloade waved away the police as she had waved away the Catholic Church.
‘No, M. Poirot—it is to you I have been guided—by those beyond the veil. Now listen. My brother Gordon married some weeks before his death, a young widow—a Mrs Underhay. Her first husband (poor child, such a grief to her) was reported dead in Africa. A mysterious country—Africa.’
‘A mysterious continent,’ Poirot corrected her. ‘Possibly. What part—’
She swept on.
‘Central Africa. The home of voodoo, of the zombie—’
‘The zombie is in the West Indies.’
Mrs Cloade swept on:
‘—of black magic—of strange and secret practices—a country where a man could disappear and never be heard of again.’
‘Possibly, possibly,’ said Poirot. ‘But the same is true of Piccadilly Circus.’
Mrs Cloade waved away Piccadilly Circus.
‘Twice lately, M. Poirot, a communication has come through from a spirit who gives his name as Robert. The message was the same each time. Not dead… We were puzzled, we knew no Robert. Asking for further guidance we got this. “R.U. R.U. R.U.—then Tell R. Tell R.” “Tell Robert?” we asked. “No, from Robert. R.U.” “What does the U. stand for?” Then, M. Poirot, the most significant answer came. “Little Boy Blue. Little Boy Blue. Ha ha ha!” You see?’
‘No,’ said Poirot, ‘I do not.’
She looked at him pityingly.
‘The nursery rhyme Little Boy Blue. “Under the Haycock fast asleep”—Underhay—you see?’
Poirot nodded. He forbore to ask why, if the name Robert could be spelt out, the name Underhay could not have been treated the same way, and why it had been necessary to resort to a kind of cheap Secret Service spy jargon.
‘And my sister-in-law’s name is Rosaleen,’ finished Mrs Cloade triumphantly. ‘You see? Confusing all these Rs. But the meaning is quite plain. “Tell Rosaleen that Robert Underhay is not dead.”’
‘Aha, and did you tell her?’
Mrs Cloade looked slightly taken aback.
‘Er—well—no. You see, I mean—well, people are so sceptical. Rosaleen, I am sure, would be so. And then, poor child, it might upset her—wondering, you know, where he was—and what he was doing.’
‘Besides projecting his voice through the ether? Quite so. A curious method, surely, of announcing his safety?’
‘Ah, M. Poirot, you are not an initiate. And how do we know what the circumstances are? Poor Captain Underhay (or is it Major Underhay) may be a prisoner somewhere in the dark interior of Africa. But if he could be found, M. Poirot. If he could be restored to his dear young Rosaleen. Think of her happiness! Oh, M. Poirot, I have been sent to you—surely, surely you will not refuse the behest of the spiritual world.’
Poirot looked at her reflectively.
‘My fees,’ he said softly, ‘are very expensive. I may say enormously expensive! And the task you suggest would not be easy.’
‘Oh dear—but surely—it is most unfortunate. I and my husband are very badly off—very badly off indeed. Actually my own plight is worse than my dear husband knows. I bought some shares—under spirit guidance—and so far they have proved very disappointing—in fact, quite alarming. They have gone right down and are now, I gather, practically unsaleable.’
She looked at him with dismayed blue eyes.
‘I have not dared to tell my husband. I simply tell you in order to explain how I am situated. But surely, dear M. Poirot, to reunite a young husband and wife—it is such a noble mission—’
‘Nobility, chère Madame, will not pay steamer and railway and air travel fares. Nor will it cover the cost of long telegrams and cables, and the interrogations of witnesses.’
‘But if he is found—if Captain Underhay is found alive and well—then—well, I think I may safely say that, once that was accomplished, there—there would be no difficulty about—er—reimbursing you.’
‘Ah, he is rich, then, this Captain Underhay?’
‘No. Well, no… But I can assure you—I can give you my word—that—that the money situation will not present difficulties.’
Slowly Poirot shook his head.
‘I am sorry, Madame. The answer is No.’
He had a little difficulty in getting her to accept that answer.
When she had finally gone away, he stood lost in thought, frowning to himself. He remembered now why the name of Cloade was familiar to him. The conversation at the club the day of the air raid came back to him. The booming boring voice of Major Porter, going on and on, telling a story to which nobody wanted to listen.
He remembered the rustle of a newspaper and Major Porter’s suddenly dropped jaw and expression of consternation.
But what worried him was trying to make up his mind about the eager middle-aged lady who had just left him. The glib spiritualistic patter, the vagueness, the floating scarves, the chains and amulets jingling round
