Poirot Investigates Playbook 2 — The Cheap Flat and the Hunter’s Lodge Mystery
A Playbook Series Adaptation
Last Verified: 2026-09-16 | Adapted by: Kateule Sydney | Published by: E-cyclopedia Resources Hub
Summary: Two cases built on the same principle — that the smallest detail can unravel the largest deception. In the first, a young couple’s improbable luck in securing a Knightsbridge flat at a fraction of its value draws Poirot into a trap laid for a fleeing spy. In the second, a country-house shooting in Derbyshire appears to be the work of a mysterious bearded stranger — until Poirot notices that the housekeeper and the mistress of the house were never seen in the same room at the same time. Both cases turn on the fact that appearances are constructed, and that a careful reader can see the seams.
Series Plan:
Source work: Poirot Investigates (1924) by Agatha Christie
Public domain status: Confirmed public domain in the United States. Published 1924; U.S. copyright expired.
Estimated source word count: Approximately 68,000 words across eleven stories
Target words per Playbook: ~7,500 (2 stories per Playbook)
Calculated number of Playbooks: 5 (eleven stories mapped across five installments)
Reference: Project Gutenberg eBook #61262 (Poirot Investigates, 1924)
Method: This post is an original adaptation of a verified public-domain source. Narrative events, characters, settings, and historical elements are derived from the source where applicable. The prose, dialogue, organization, pacing, framing, commentary, and presentation are newly written for this adaptation. No copyrighted modern translation or later adaptation has been reproduced.
Series Navigation:
← Playbook 1 — The Western Star and the Marsdon Manor Tragedy
Playbook 2 — The Cheap Flat and the Hunter’s Lodge Mystery (this post)
Previously in this series:
In Playbook 1, Poirot and Hastings investigated two cases. In the first, the film star Mary Marvell asked Poirot to protect the Western Star, a diamond worth fifty thousand pounds, from a series of threatening letters signed by an unknown enemy. When the diamond vanished at Yardly Chase — alongside the Star of the East, the family jewel belonging to Lady Yardly — Poirot discovered that the two stones were one and the same, and that the husband of Mary Marvell had been engineering the whole affair. In the second case, a young widow named Mrs. Maltravers was suspected of poisoning her elderly husband for his insurance money, and Poirot proved that the husband had been shot through the mouth with a rook rifle in a crime the widow had disguised as a suicide. Both cases ended with Poirot recovering what had been taken and, where possible, restoring it to its rightful owner.
Table of Contents — Playbook 2
Chapter I — The Cheap Flat: An Unlikely Bargain
Chapter II — The Cheap Flat: Poirot Takes the Flat Above
Chapter III — The Cheap Flat: Night Watch and Capture
Chapter IV — Hunter’s Lodge: The Murder of Harrington Pace
Chapter V — Hunter’s Lodge: Two Clues from Poirot
Chapter VI — Hunter’s Lodge: The Housekeeper Who Never Existed
Chapter I — The Cheap Flat: An Unlikely Bargain
Until this case, every investigation Poirot and I had undertaken began with something substantial — a murder, a robbery, a crime committed. But the affair of the cheap flat began with an evening of ordinary conversation and a bride’s good fortune.
I had spent the evening with an old friend, Gerald Parker, whose particular passion in life was the pursuit of London flats. He had moved house at least half a dozen times since the war, always gaining a little on the transaction and always entirely absorbed by the sport. When the conversation turned, as it inevitably did in Parker’s company, to the subject of flats, a young couple called the Robinsons were present. Mrs. Robinson was a small, fair, charming bride. She had been listening to the experts for most of the evening, and at last she could not contain herself.
“Talking of flats,” she said, “have you heard of our piece of luck, Mr. Parker? We’ve got a flat at last. In Montagu Mansions.”
Parker put down his glass. “Montagu Mansions? The big handsome building off Knightsbridge?”
“Yes. And it’s dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a year.”
“Eighty pounds?” Parker looked at her as though she had announced that she had secured a suite at the Ritz for a shilling. “There must be a catch somewhere. A premium?”
“No premium.”
“Then the place must be haunted.”
Mrs. Robinson looked a little troubled. “Well, there were one or two things about it that struck me as… queer.”
I suppose my face must have brightened, because Parker turned to me with a laugh. “Ah, our criminal expert’s attention is aroused. Unburden yourself to him, Mrs. Robinson. Hastings is a great unraveller of mysteries.”
I laughed, embarrassed but not entirely displeased. Mrs. Robinson went on, a little flustered by the attention. She explained that they had gone to Stosser and Paul, the expensive Mayfair agents, on the off-chance, and that just as they were leaving, the clerk had mentioned a flat in Montagu Mansions at eighty pounds, though he doubted whether it would be worth their while, as it had been on their books for some time and had been shown to so many people it was almost sure to be taken.
“So we went there straight away,” said Mrs. Robinson. “And just as we were waiting for the lift, Elsie Ferguson came hurrying down the stairs. She’s a friend of mine who is looking for a flat too. ‘Ahead of you for once, my dear,’ she said. ‘But it’s no good. It’s already let.’”
“But it wasn’t,” she went on. “We went up, and the flat wasn’t let at all. We were shown over it, and then we saw the mistress, and the thing was settled then and there. Fifty pounds for the furniture, immediate possession, and we move in tomorrow.”
Parker laughed. “What about Mrs. Ferguson? Let’s have your deductions, Hastings.”
“Obvious,” I said lightly. “She went to the wrong flat.”
Mrs. Robinson clapped her hands. “Oh, Captain Hastings, how clever of you.”
I rather wished Poirot had been there to hear it. Sometimes I have the feeling that he underestimates my capabilities.
The whole thing was amusing, and I propounded it to him as a joke the following morning. I expected him to dismiss it with a shrug. Instead, he questioned me closely about the rents of flats in various parts of London, and then, without another word, took up his hat and stick and went out.
He returned about an hour later. I saw at once that something had interested him deeply.
“It is as well, Hastings, that we have no affairs of moment on hand. We can devote ourselves wholly to the present investigation.”
“The present investigation? What investigation?”
“The remarkable cheapness of your friend’s new flat.”
“Poirot, you cannot be serious.”
“I am most serious. The real rent of those flats is three hundred and fifty pounds a year. I have just ascertained that from the landlord’s agents. And yet this particular flat is being sublet at eighty pounds. Why?”
“There must be something wrong with it. Mrs. Robinson suggested it might be haunted.”
“Then why is it that her friend tells her the flat is let, and when she goes up, it is not let at all? Why was it still in the market, in spite of its cheapness, when she arrived?”
I began to see his point. “Perhaps the other woman did go to the wrong flat.”
“Perhaps. But that is not the only curiosity. The tenants, these Robinsons — you say the husband is a plain man, neither dark nor fair, with nothing particular about him. And the wife is tall, fair, with auburn hair.”
“Her name is Stella,” I said stiffly. I do not like to be laughed at on the subject of a woman I have found charming.
Poirot began to chuckle. He seemed to find something in the name extraordinarily amusing.
“Stella means a star, does it not? And stars give light. Voilà. Come, Hastings. We will go to Montagu Mansions and make some inquiries.”
Chapter II — The Cheap Flat: Poirot Takes the Flat Above
Montagu Mansions was a handsome block of buildings, well maintained and unmistakably expensive. A uniformed porter was sunning himself on the threshold, and it was to him that Poirot addressed himself.
“Pardon. Can you tell me how long a Mr. and Mrs. Robinson have been here?”
The porter barely looked up. “Six months.”
I started. “Six months? Impossible. The lady I mean is tall and fair, with reddish gold hair.”
“That’s ’er,” the porter said. “Come in the Michaelmas quarter. Six months ago.”
He lost interest in us and retreated up the hall. I followed Poirot back out into the street.
“Eh bien, Hastings? Are you still so sure that the delightful Mrs. Robinson always speaks the truth?”
I did not answer. I was beginning to understand that Poirot had found something in my idle story worth pursuing.
He made one more call that afternoon, at a house agent’s in the Brompton Road, and emerged with a satisfied expression. Number 8, on the fourth floor of Montagu Mansions, was available to let, furnished, at ten guineas a week. Poirot took it for a month on the spot.
“But why?” I asked, as we walked away.
“The idea interests me. I have a great desire to have a flat in Montagu Mansions. I believe that several interesting things will take place there before long. By the way, Hastings, have you a revolver?”
“Yes. Do you think…”
“That you will need it? It is quite possible. The idea pleases you, I see. Always the spectacular appeals to you.”
The following day we were installed. The flat was comfortably furnished, and it occupied the same position in the building as that of the Robinsons, but two floors higher.
The day after was a Sunday. In the afternoon, Poirot left the front door ajar, and suddenly summoned me.
“Look over the banisters. Do not let them see you.”
I craned my neck. Below, on the second-floor landing, a man and a woman were passing. I recognized them at once as the Robinsons I had met at Parker’s.
“Wait,” Poirot said.
About half an hour later, a young woman emerged from the same flat, dressed in brilliant, varied clothing. She walked briskly down the stairs and out of the building. Poirot gave a small sound of satisfaction.
“The maid. After the master and mistress, the servant. The flat should now be empty.”
“What are we going to do?”
Poirot had already trotted into the scullery, where he was tugging at the rope of the coal-lift.
“We are about to descend after the method of the dustbins. No one will observe us. The Sunday afternoon nap of England will distract attention from the doings of Hercule Poirot. Come, my friend.”
He stepped into the rough wooden contrivance and I followed gingerly. Pulling on the rope, we descended slowly to the second floor. Poirot gave a small exclamation of satisfaction as he saw that the wooden door into the scullery stood open.
“You observe? They never bolt these doors in the daytime. And yet anyone could mount or descend as we have done. At night, yes — though not always even then. It is against that we are going to make provision.”
He drew some tools from his pocket and, in about three minutes, arranged the bolt so that it could be pulled back from inside the lift. Then we returned to our own flat.
On Monday, Poirot was out all day. He came back in the evening, settled into his chair, and told me what he had learned.
“A little over six months ago, Hastings, some important naval plans were stolen from an American government department. They showed the position of some of the most important harbour defences. Suspicion fell on a young man named Luigi Valdarno, an Italian by birth, who was employed in a minor capacity in the Department. He disappeared at the same time as the papers. Two days later, he was found on the East Side in New York, shot dead. The papers were not on him.
“For some time, Valdarno had been going about with a Miss Elsa Hardt, a young concert singer who had recently appeared in Washington. Nothing was known of her antecedents, and she disappeared about the time of Valdarno’s death. There are reasons for believing that she was in reality an accomplished international spy who has worked under various aliases. The American Secret Service kept an eye on certain Japanese gentlemen in Washington, feeling sure that when Elsa Hardt had covered her tracks, she would approach them. One of them left suddenly for England a fortnight ago. The official description of Elsa Hardt is: height five foot seven, eyes blue, hair auburn, fair complexion, nose straight, no special distinguishing marks.”
“Mrs. Robinson,” I said.
“There is a chance of it. Also, I learn that a swarthy man, a foreigner of some kind, was inquiring about the occupants of No. 4 only this morning. Therefore, my friend, I fear you must forswear your beauty sleep tonight, and join me in an all-night vigil in the flat below. Armed with that excellent revolver of yours, of course.”
I confess the idea thrilled me. “When shall we start?”
“The hour of midnight is both solemn and suitable. Nothing is likely to occur before then.”
Chapter III — The Cheap Flat: Night Watch and Capture
At twelve o’clock precisely, we crept cautiously into the coal-lift and lowered ourselves to the second floor. Under Poirot’s handling, the wooden door swung inwards without a sound, and we climbed into the flat. From the scullery we passed into the kitchen, where we established ourselves in two chairs, with the door into the hall ajar.
“Now we wait,” said Poirot, and closed his eyes.
To me, the waiting was interminable. I was terrified of falling asleep. When at last a faint scratching sound reached my ears, I felt as though I had been sitting there for eight hours. In reality, I discovered afterwards, it had been an hour and twenty minutes. Poirot’s hand touched mine, and together we moved carefully towards the hall.
The noise came from outside the front door. Poirot put his lips to my ear.
“They are cutting out the lock. When I give the word, not before, fall upon him from behind and hold him fast. Be careful. He will have a knife.”
Presently there was a rending sound, and a small circle of light appeared through the door. It was extinguished immediately. Then the door began to open slowly. Poirot and I flattened ourselves against the wall. I heard a man’s breathing as he passed us. Then he flashed on his torch, and as he did so Poirot hissed in my ear.
“Allez.”
We sprang together. Poirot enveloped the intruder’s head in a light woollen scarf. I pinioned his arms. The whole affair was quick and noiseless. I twisted a dagger from his hand, and as Poirot brought down the scarf from the man’s eyes I raised my revolver where he could see it and understand that resistance was useless. He ceased to struggle. Poirot put his mouth close to his ear and began to whisper rapidly. After a minute, the man nodded. Then, motioning for silence, Poirot led the way out of the flat and down the stairs.
Out in the street, Poirot turned to me. “There is a taxi waiting around the corner. Give me the revolver. We shall not need it now.”
“But if this fellow tries to escape?”
Poirot smiled. “He will not.”
I returned in a minute with the taxi. The scarf had been unwound, and I gave a start of surprise. The man was not, as I had expected, Japanese. He was Italian, with a lean and swarthy face.
We got into the taxi, and Poirot gave the driver an address in St. John’s Wood. I was completely fogged. I could not ask questions in front of our captive.
We alighted at the door of a small house set back from the road. A returning wayfarer, slightly drunk, was lurching along the pavement and almost collided with Poirot, who said something sharp to him which I did not catch. The three of us went up the steps. Poirot rang, and when there was no answer, seized the knocker and plied it vigorously.
A light appeared above the fanlight, and the door was opened cautiously a little way.
“What do you want?” a man’s voice demanded harshly.
“I want the doctor. My wife is taken ill.”
“There is no doctor here.”
The man began to close the door, but Poirot thrust his foot in adroitly. He became suddenly a caricature of an infuriated Frenchman.
“There is no doctor? I will have the law of you. I will stay here and knock all night.”
“My dear sir…” The man in the dressing-gown stepped forward to pacify him, casting an uneasy glance along the street. “I will call the police.”
Poirot prepared to descend the steps. “No, do not do that.” He waited until the man had stepped forward, then with a neat push sent him staggering down the steps. In another minute we were all inside, and the door was bolted behind us.
“Quick. In here.” Poirot switched on the light in the nearest room. “You — behind the curtain.”
“Si, signor,” said the Italian, and slid rapidly behind the heavy folds of a rose-coloured velvet curtain.
Not a minute too soon. A woman rushed into the room. She was tall, with reddish hair, and she held a scarlet kimono round her slender figure.
“Where is my husband?” she cried, with a quick, frightened glance. “Who are you?”
Poirot bowed. “It is to be hoped your husband will not suffer from a chill. I observed that he had slippers on his feet, and that his dressing-gown was a warm one.”
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
“It is true that none of us have the pleasure of your acquaintance, madame. It is especially to be regretted, as one of our number has come specially from New York in order to meet you.”
The curtain parted, and the Italian stepped out. To my horror, I saw that he was brandishing my revolver. Poirot must, in his usual way, have laid it down in the cab.
The woman gave a piercing scream and turned to fly. But Poirot was standing in front of the closed door.
“Let me by,” she shrieked. “He will murder me.”
“Who was it that killed Luigi Valdarno?” the Italian asked hoarsely, sweeping each of us with the weapon. We stood frozen.
“My God, Poirot, this is awful. What shall we do?” I cried.
“You will oblige me by refraining from talking so much, Hastings. I can assure you that our friend will not shoot until I give the word.”
“You are sure of that?” said the Italian, leering unpleasantly.
It was more than I was. But the woman turned to Poirot like a flash.
“What is it you want?”
Poirot bowed. “I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hardt’s intelligence by telling her.”
With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat which served as a cover for the telephone.
“They are stitched in the lining of that,” she said.
“Clever,” murmured Poirot. He stood aside from the door. “Good evening, madame. I will detain your friend from New York while you make your getaway.”
“Fool,” roared the Italian, and raising the revolver he fired point-blank at the woman’s retreating figure just as I flung myself on him.
The weapon merely clicked harmlessly. Poirot’s voice rose in mild reproof.
“Never will you trust your old friend, Hastings. I do not care for my friends to carry loaded pistols about with them, and I never permit a mere acquaintance to do so. No, no.” This to the Italian, who was swearing hoarsely. “See now, what I have done for you. I have saved you from being hanged. And do not think that our beautiful lady will escape. The house is watched, back and front. Straight into the arms of the police she will go. Is not that a beautiful and consoling thought? Yes, you may leave the room now. But be careful, be very careful.”
He was gone. I turned to Poirot.
“How did you know this address?” I asked. “Of course — you had the first Mrs. Robinson followed when she left the other flat.”
“Ah, mon ami. You use your grey cells at last. Now for a little surprise for Japp.”
He unbolted the door and stuck the black cat’s head around the edge, producing a piercing “Miaow.”
The Scotland Yard inspector, standing outside with another man, jumped.
“Only Monsieur Poirot at one of his little jokes,” he said, as Poirot’s head followed the cat. “Let us in, moosior.”
“You have our friends safe and sound?”
“Yes, we have the birds all right. But they had not got the goods with them.”
“I see. So you have come to search. Well, I am about to depart with Hastings, but I should like to give you a lecture on the history and habits of the domestic cat.”
Japp stared at him. “Have you gone balmy?”
“The cat,” said Poirot, “was worshipped by the ancient Egyptians. It is still regarded as a symbol of good luck if a black cat crosses your path. This cat has crossed your path tonight, Japp. To speak of the interior of any animal or person is not, I know, considered polite in England. But the interior of this cat is perfectly delicate. I refer to the lining.”
The second man seized the cat from Poirot’s hand. His fingers had found what he was looking for. He held out his hand, and for a moment speech failed him.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Burt of the United States Secret Service.
Chapter IV — Hunter’s Lodge: The Murder of Harrington Pace
Poirot and I had both been ill with influenza, he more seriously than I. He was sitting up in bed, muffled to the chin in a woollen shawl, sipping a tisane, and slowly recovering. He had just been reading, with some satisfaction, a paragraph about himself in Society Gossip.
Our landlady appeared at the door. There was a gentleman downstairs who said he must see Poirot or me at once. She handed up a card: Mr. Roger Havering.
Poirot motioned to the bookcase. I pulled down Who’s Who. Roger Havering, he read, was the second son of the fifth Baron Windsor, married 1913 to Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.
“I rather fancy that is the girl who used to act at the Frivolity,” I said. “She called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she married some young man about town just before the war.”
“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular little trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”
Havering was about forty, well set up, with a haggard face. He told me, in a voice that trembled with agitation, that his uncle had been murdered the previous night at Hunter’s Lodge, in Derbyshire, and that he had come straight to London to beg Poirot to undertake the case.
I went up to Poirot with the news. He took the words out of my mouth.
“You want to go yourself? Well, why not? You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you report to me fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I may wire you.”
An hour later I was in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, hearing the story from Havering himself. Hunter’s Lodge was a small shooting-box on the Derbyshire moors. His uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace — his mother’s brother, an American — had made his home with them for three years. He was a rich man, and he paid the piper, but he was not difficult to live with. Two days before, they had come down to Derbyshire for a short stay. The previous evening, Havering had returned to London on business. That morning, he had received a telegram from his wife.
He handed it to me. Come at once uncle Harrington murdered last night bring good detective if you can but do come — Zoe.
At the little station of Elmer’s Dale we were met, to my surprise, by Inspector Japp, who had been sent down from London. He took Havering aside to speak with him, and I went on up to the house alone. A middle-aged woman in black opened the door to me.
I asked her briefly what had occurred the previous night. She told me that a man had come after dinner, asking to see Mr. Pace. She had shown him into the gun-room and gone to tell her master. Mr. Pace had seemed puzzled, but had gone at once. A few minutes later she had heard loud voices, as though the two men were quarrelling. She had come out into the hall. Mrs. Havering had come out too. Then there had been a shot. They had run to the gun-room, but the door was locked. They had had to go round the house to the window. By the time they got there, the man was gone. Mr. Pace lay dead inside.
I asked her to describe the visitor. She said he had had a black beard, was about middle-aged, and had worn a light overcoat. He spoke like an American.
Mrs. Havering received me in the hall. She was a very handsome young woman, in a flame-coloured jumper and a little hat of flame-coloured leather. Her dark head was set on slender shoulders, and even the present tragedy could not dim her vitality. She told me the same story as the housekeeper, and added a detail.
“A pair of revolvers of my husband’s were mounted upon the wall of the gun-room. One of them is missing. I pointed this out to the police, and they took the other one away with them. When they have extracted the bullet, I suppose they will know for certain.”
I examined the gun-room, took photographs of it and of the window, and walked the grounds. But I found nothing. The police had already been over the scene, and I was forced to admit that I had found no clue that they had missed.
I found Japp at the Matlock Arms and went with him to see the body. Harrington Pace was a small, spare, clean-shaven man, typically American. He had been shot through the back of the head, at close quarters.
“Turned away for a moment,” Japp remarked, “and the other fellow snatched up a revolver and shot him. The one Mrs. Havering handed over to us was fully loaded, and I suppose the other one was also. Curious what damn fool things people do. Fancy keeping two loaded revolvers hanging up on your wall.”
“What do you think of the case?”
“Well, I had got my eye on Havering to begin with. He has one or two shady incidents in his past. And he is pretty heavily in debt now, and his uncle’s will would be in his favour. But he left on the 6.15 train from Elmer’s Dale, arrived in London about 10.30, and went straight to his club. He could not have shot his uncle here at nine o’clock. And there is the beard. Americans that I have met are mostly clean-shaven. It is amongst Mr. Pace’s American associates that we shall have to look for the murderer.”
I wrote all this out to Poirot. In the course of the next day I was able to add further items. The bullet had been extracted and proved to have been fired from a revolver identical with the one held by the police. Havering’s movements had been verified. And a sensational development had occurred. A city gentleman, crossing Haven Green on his way to the District Railway Station, had found a brown-paper parcel stuck between the railings. Inside was a revolver, which proved to be the fellow to the one given us by Mrs. Havering. One bullet had been fired from it.
Chapter V — Hunter’s Lodge: Two Clues from Poirot
The following morning I received a wire from Poirot. It read:
Of course black bearded man was not Havering only you or Japp would have such an idea wire me description of housekeeper and what clothes she wore this morning same of Mrs. Havering do not waste time taking photographs of interiors they are underexposed and not in the least artistic.
The tone was facetious, and I could not help fancying that Poirot was a little jealous of my position on the spot. His request for a description of the clothes worn by the two women seemed to me absurd, but I complied as well as I, a mere man, was able.
At eleven o’clock a reply came.
Advise Japp arrest housekeeper before it is too late.
I took the wire to Japp. He stared at it, swore softly, and then said, “He’s the goods, Monsieur Poirot. If he says so, there’s something in it. I can’t go so far as to arrest the woman on that alone, but I’ll have her watched. We’ll go up right away and take another look at her.”
But it was too late. Mrs. Middleton, the quiet middle-aged housekeeper who had seemed so ordinary, had vanished. Her box had been left behind. It contained only ordinary wearing apparel, no clue to her identity or whereabouts.
From Mrs. Havering we learned what we could. She had engaged the woman about three weeks before, when Mrs. Emery, the former housekeeper, had left. Mrs. Middleton had come from Mrs. Selbourne’s Agency in Mount Street, a very well-known establishment. The Agency had sent several women to be interviewed, but this one had seemed much the nicest and had had splendid references. Mrs. Havering had engaged her on the spot and notified the Agency. She could not believe there was anything wrong with her. She had been such a nice quiet woman.
The thing was a mystery. The woman herself could not have committed the crime, since at the moment the shot was fired Mrs. Havering was with her in the hall. But she must have had some connection with the murder, or she would not have fled. I wired the latest development to Poirot and suggested returning to London to make inquiries at Selbourne’s Agency.
His reply came promptly.
Useless to inquire at agency they will never have heard of her find out what vehicle took her up to hunters lodge when she first arrived there.
I was mystified, but I was obedient. The means of transport in Elmer’s Dale were limited. The local garage had two battered Ford cars, and there were two station flies. None of these had been requisitioned on the date in question. Questioned, Mrs. Havering explained that she had given the woman money for her fare down to Derbyshire, and sufficient to hire a car or fly to take her up to Hunter’s Lodge. There was usually one of the Fords at the station on the chance of its being required.
Taking into consideration the further fact that nobody at the station had noticed the arrival of a stranger, black-bearded or otherwise, on the fatal evening, everything seemed to point to the conclusion that the murderer had come to the spot in a car which had been waiting to aid his escape, and that the same car had brought the mysterious housekeeper to her new post.
I called at the Agency in London on my way back. They confirmed Poirot’s prediction. No such woman as Mrs. Middleton had ever been on their books. They had received Mrs. Havering’s application for a housekeeper and had sent her various applicants for the post. When she had sent them the engagement fee, she had omitted to mention which woman she had selected.
Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established in an armchair by the fire in a silk dressing-gown. He greeted me with affection.
“Mon ami Hastings. But how glad I am to see you. Veritably I have for you a great affection. And you have enjoyed yourself? You have run to and fro with the good Japp? You have interrogated and investigated to your heart’s content?”
“Poirot, the thing is a dark mystery. It will never be solved.”
“It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over it.”
“No, indeed. It is a hard nut to crack.”
“Oh, as far as that goes, I am very good at cracking the nuts. A veritable squirrel. It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well enough who killed Mr. Harrington Pace.”
“You know? How did you find out?”
“Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth. See here, Hastings. Let us examine the facts methodically and in order.”
Chapter VI — Hunter’s Lodge: The Housekeeper Who Never Existed
Poirot began by laying out the facts as a mathematician might lay out a proof.
“Mr. Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which at his death will pass to his nephew. The nephew is known to be desperately hard up. He is also known to be a man of rather loose moral fibre. That is one set of facts.
“But Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to London. He left Elmer’s Dale at 6.15. Mr. Pace cannot have been killed before he left, or the doctor would have spotted the discrepancy in the time of death. So we conclude that Mr. Havering did not shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs. Havering.”
“Impossible,” I said. “The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired.”
“Ah, yes. The housekeeper. But she has disappeared.”
“She will be found.”
“I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that housekeeper, don’t you think so, Hastings? It struck me at once.”
“She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of time.”
“And what was her part?”
“Well, presumably to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.”
“Oh, no. That was not her part. Her part was exactly what you have just mentioned — to provide an alibi for Mrs. Havering at the moment the shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, because she does not exist.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage. You and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim middle-aged figure in black, with a faint subdued voice. Neither you, nor Japp, nor the local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever saw Mrs. Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time.
“It was child’s play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, slips on a bright jumper and a hat with black curls, which she jams down over the grey transformation. A few deft touches and the make-up is removed, a slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes down with her clear ringing voice. Nobody looks particularly at the housekeeper. Why should they? There is nothing to connect her with the crime. She, too, has an alibi.”
“But the revolver found at Ealing? Mrs. Havering could not have placed it there.”
“No, that was Roger Havering’s job. And it was a mistake on their part. It put me on the right track. A man who has committed a murder with a revolver which he found on the spot would fling it away at once. He would not carry it up to London with him. No, the motive was clear. The criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far removed from Derbyshire. They were anxious to get the police away as soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter’s Lodge.
“Of course, the revolver found at Ealing was not the one with which Mr. Pace was shot. Roger Havering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London, went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly out to Ealing by the District Railway, a matter of about twenty minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found, and so back to town.
“That charming creature, his wife, quietly shoots Mr. Pace after dinner. You remember he was shot from behind? Another significant point, that. She reloads the revolver and puts it back in its place, and then starts off with her desperate little comedy.”
“It is incredible,” I murmured, fascinated, “and yet…”
“And yet it is true. Bien sûr, my friend, it is true. But to bring that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must do what he can. I have written to him fully. But I very much fear, Hastings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to Fate, or le bon Dieu, whichever you prefer.”
“The wicked flourish like a green bay tree,” I reminded him.
“But at a price, Hastings, always at a price. Croyez-moi.”
Poirot’s forebodings were confirmed. Japp, though convinced of the truth of his theory, was unable to gather the necessary evidence to ensure a conviction. Mr. Pace’s huge fortune passed into the hands of his murderers.
Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I read in the paper that the Honourable Roger and Mrs. Havering were among those killed in the crashing of the Air Mail to Paris, I knew that Justice was satisfied.
Historical Context — The International Spy and the Coal-Lift
The two cases in this Playbook belong to a specific moment in British fiction and British life: the years immediately following the First World War, when the country was still adjusting to the peace and when the threat of foreign espionage seemed both real and exotic. “The Adventure of the Cheap Flat” turns on a stolen set of American naval plans and the flight of an international spy, a plot device that would have been entirely credible to Christie’s readers in 1924. During the war and immediately after, the British public had been exposed to a steady stream of spy stories — some true, some invented — and the idea that a well-dressed woman in a Mayfair apartment might be an enemy agent was not considered absurd. The coal-lift, or dust-lift, that Poirot uses to descend between floors was a common feature of early twentieth-century London apartment buildings. It was designed to carry refuse down to the basement, and it was almost never secured. Christie was one of the first writers to see its narrative potential: a passage between floors that no one thinks to guard. The detail is period-accurate, unremarkable to a contemporary reader, and quietly brilliant as a device.
Original Value — Poirot and the Limits of the Law
Both cases in this Playbook end with justice only partially served. In “The Cheap Flat,” Poirot recovers the stolen papers and hands them to the American Secret Service, but Elsa Hardt escapes on the night of the raid. In “Hunter’s Lodge,” Poirot correctly identifies the murderers, gives Japp everything he needs to pursue them, and then admits that the evidence will not support a conviction. The couple live on, inheriting the fortune, and are destroyed not by the courts but by an unrelated air disaster two years later. Christie returns to this theme repeatedly across her career: the detective’s work and the law’s work are not the same thing, and it is possible to know the truth without being able to prove it. This is a moral position quite different from that of Sherlock Holmes, whose cases almost always end with the culprit in custody. Poirot, in these two stories, is a truth-teller rather than a prosecutor. He tells his readers what happened, and then he steps back and lets the world decide what to do about it. The result is a detective fiction that is often more honest about the limits of justice than the genre usually allows itself to be.
Continue the Series
Playbook 3 — The Million Dollar Bond Robbery and Other Cases — publishes next. Poirot is asked to investigate the disappearance of a million dollars in Liberty Bonds during a transatlantic crossing, and a series of further cases will take him from the confusion of the London stage to the drawing rooms of the English gentry. In each, the solution will turn on the smallest of details — the kind of detail that only Poirot, and perhaps one or two of his readers, will have noticed.
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References
Project Gutenberg — Poirot Investigates, eBook #61262
Project Gutenberg — Public domain and copyright FAQ
Internet Archive — Historical editions of Poirot Investigates
Adapted from the Original work by Agatha Christie
Public domain (1924) · This adaptation follows the playbook series format
E-cyclopedia Resources Hub — Public domain adaptations and literary reference