Poirot Investigates Playbook 5 — The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim and the Italian Nobleman
A Playbook Series Adaptation
Last Verified: 2026-09-16 | Adapted by: Kateule Sydney | Published by: E-cyclopedia Resources Hub
Summary: The final Playbook in the series brings together two cases in which the crime is not what it appears to be. In the first, a well-known banker walks out of his house and vanishes into thin air, and Poirot locates him not in some distant hiding place but in the one location the police would never think to look. In the second, an Italian nobleman is found murdered at his own dinner table, and Poirot discovers that the dinner itself was a performance designed to mislead the investigators. Both cases turn on the same final principle: the detective who trusts the evidence of his eyes has already been deceived.
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 4 — The Jewel Robbery and the Kidnapped Prime Minister
Playbook 5 — The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim and the Italian Nobleman (this post)
End of the Poirot Investigates Series
Previously in this series:
In Playbook 4, Poirot investigated two cases. In the first, a pearl necklace vanished from a locked jewel case in a Brighton hotel, and Poirot discovered that the theft the police were investigating was only the final act of a scheme that had begun weeks earlier with the substitution of a false necklace. In the second, the Prime Minister of England was reported abducted on his way to a peace conference in France, and Poirot proved that the abduction was a fiction designed to conceal the fact that the Prime Minister had never left England at all. Both cases required him to identify which facts to believe and which to discard, and in both he succeeded by working from within, rather than by rushing from one scene of action to another.
Table of Contents — Playbook 5
Chapter I — Davenheim: The Man Who Vanished
Chapter II — Davenheim: The Man Who Hides in Prison
Chapter III — The Italian Nobleman: A Dying Telephone Call
Chapter IV — The Italian Nobleman: The Dinner That Was Never Eaten
Chapter I — Davenheim: The Man Who Vanished
Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he described as English poison.
A sharp knock sounded below, and a few minutes later Japp entered briskly.
“Hope I am not late,” he said as he greeted us. “To tell the truth, I was yarning with Miller, the man who is in charge of the Davenheim case.”
I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been full of the strange disappearance of Mr. Davenheim, senior partner of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers. On Saturday last he had walked out of his house and had never been seen since.
“I should have thought,” I remarked, “that it would be almost impossible for anyone to disappear nowadays.”
Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch and said sharply: “Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by disappear? To which class of disappearance are you referring?”
“Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?” I laughed.
Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at us both.
“But certainly they are. They fall into three categories. First, and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much-abused loss of memory case, rare, but occasionally genuine. Third, murder, and a more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of execution?”
“Very nearly so. You might lose your own memory, but someone would be sure to recognize you, especially in the case of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then bodies cannot be made to vanish into thin air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places or in trunks. Murder will out. In the same way, the absconding clerk or the domestic defaulter is bound to be run down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He can be headed off from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are watched; and as for concealment in this country, his features and appearance will be known to everyone who reads a daily newspaper. He is up against civilization.”
“My friend,” said Poirot, “you make one error. You do not allow for the fact that a man who has decided to make away with another man, or with himself in a figurative sense, might be that rare machine, a man of method. He might bring intelligence, talent, a careful calculation of detail to the task, and then I do not see why he should not be successful in baffling the police force.”
“But not you, I suppose?” said Japp good-humouredly, winking at me. “He could not baffle you, eh, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot endeavoured, with a marked lack of success, to look modest. “Me, also. Why not? It is true that I approach such problems with an exact science, a mathematical precision, which seems, alas, only too rare in the new generation of detectives.”
Japp grinned more widely. “I do not know. Miller, the man who is on this case, is a smart chap. You may be very sure he will not overlook a footprint, or a cigar ash, or a crumb even. He has got eyes that see everything.”
“So, mon ami,” said Poirot, “has the London sparrow. But all the same, I should not ask the little brown bird to solve the problem of Mr. Davenheim.”
“Come now, monsieur, you are not going to run down the value of details as clues?”
“By no means. These things are all good in their way. The danger is they may assume undue importance. Most details are insignificant. One or two are vital. It is the brain, the little grey cells, on which one must rely. The senses mislead. One must seek the truth within, not without.”
“You do not mean to say, Monsieur Poirot, that you would undertake to solve a case without moving from your chair, do you?”
“That is exactly what I do mean, granted the facts were placed before me. I regard myself as a consulting specialist.”
Japp slapped his knee. “Hanged if I do not take you at your word. Bet you a fiver that you cannot lay your hand, or rather tell me where to lay my hand, on Mr. Davenheim, dead or alive, before a week is out.”
Poirot considered. “Eh bien, mon ami, I accept. Le sport, it is the passion of you English. Now, the facts.”
“On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr. Davenheim took the 12.40 train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country place, The Cedars, is situated. After lunch he strolled round the grounds and gave various directions to the gardeners. Everybody agrees that his manner was absolutely normal and as usual. After tea he put his head into his wife’s boudoir, saying that he was going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added that he was expecting a Mr. Lowen on business. If he should come before he himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and asked to wait. Mr. Davenheim then left the house by the front door, passed leisurely down the drive and out at the gate, and was never seen again. From that hour he vanished completely.”
“Pretty. Very pretty. Altogether a charming little problem,” murmured Poirot. “Proceed, my good friend.”
“About a quarter of an hour later a tall dark man with a thick black moustache rang the front door bell and explained that he had an appointment with Mr. Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen, and in accordance with the banker’s instructions was shown into the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr. Davenheim did not return. Finally Mr. Lowen rang the bell and explained that he was unable to wait any longer, as he must catch his train back to town. Mrs. Davenheim apologized for her husband’s absence, which seemed unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor. Mr. Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure.
“Well, as everyone knows, Mr. Davenheim did not return. Early on Sunday morning the police were communicated with, but could make neither head nor tail of the matter. Mr. Davenheim seemed literally to have vanished into thin air. He had not been to the post office, nor had he been seen passing through the village. At the station they were positive he had not departed by any train. His own motor had not left the garage. If he had hired a car to meet him in some lonely spot, it seems almost certain that by this time, in view of the large reward offered for information, the driver would have come forward to tell what he knew. True, there was a small race-meeting at Entfield, five miles away, and if he had walked to that station he might have passed unnoticed in the crowd. But since then his photograph and a full description of him have been circulated in every newspaper, and nobody has been able to give any news of him. We have, of course, received many letters from all over England, but each clue, so far, has ended in disappointment.
“On Monday morning a further sensational discovery came to light. Behind a portière in Mr. Davenheim’s study stands a safe, and that safe had been broken into and rifled. The windows were fastened securely on the inside, which seems to put an ordinary burglary out of court, unless, of course, an accomplice within the house fastened them again afterwards. On the other hand, Sunday having intervened and the household being in a state of chaos, it is likely that the burglary was committed on the Saturday and remained undetected until Monday.”
“Précisément,” said Poirot dryly. “Well, is he arrested, ce pauvre M. Lowen?”
Japp grinned. “Not yet. But he is under pretty close supervision.”
Poirot nodded. “What was taken from the safe? Have you any idea?”
“We have been going into that with the junior partner of the firm and Mrs. Davenheim. Apparently there was a considerable amount in bearer bonds, and a very large sum in notes, owing to some large transaction having been just carried through. There was also a small fortune in jewellery. All Mrs. Davenheim’s jewels were kept in the safe. The purchasing of them had become a passion with her husband of late years, and hardly a month passed that he did not make her a present of some rare and costly gem.”
“Altogether a good haul,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Now, what about Lowen? Is it known what his business was with Davenheim that evening?”
“Well, the two men were apparently not on very good terms. Lowen is a speculator in quite a small way. Nevertheless, he has been able once or twice to score a coup off Davenheim in the market, though it seems they seldom or never actually met. It was a matter concerning some South American shares which led the banker to make his appointment.”
“Had Davenheim interests in South America, then?”
“I believe so. Mrs. Davenheim happened to mention that he spent all last autumn in Buenos Ayres.”
“Any trouble in his home life? Were the husband and wife on good terms?”
“I should say his domestic life was quite peaceful and uneventful. Mrs. Davenheim is a pleasant, rather unintelligent woman. Quite a nonentity, I think.”
“Then we must not look for the solution of the mystery there. Had he any enemies?”
“He had plenty of financial rivals, and no doubt there are many people whom he has got the better of who bear him no particular goodwill. But there was no one likely to make away with him. And if they had, where is the body?”
“Exactly. As Hastings says, bodies have a habit of coming to light with fatal persistency.”
“By the way, one of the gardeners says he saw a figure going round to the side of the house toward the rose garden. The long French window of the study opens on to the rose garden, and Mr. Davenheim frequently entered and left the house that way. But the man was a good way off, at work on some cucumber frames, and cannot even say whether it was the figure of his master or not. Also, he cannot fix the time with any accuracy. It must have been before six, as the gardeners cease work at that time.”
“And Mr. Davenheim left the house?”
“About half past five or thereabouts.”
“What lies beyond the rose garden?”
“A lake.”
“With a boathouse?”
“Yes, a couple of punts are kept there. I suppose you are thinking of suicide, Monsieur Poirot. Well, I do not mind telling you that Miller is going down tomorrow expressly to see that piece of water dragged. That is the kind of man he is.”
Poirot smiled faintly and turned to me. “Hastings, I pray you, hand me that copy of the Daily Megaphone. If I remember rightly, there is an unusually clear photograph there of the missing man.”
I rose and found the sheet required. Poirot studied the features attentively.
“H’m. Wears his hair rather long and wavy, full moustache and pointed beard, bushy eyebrows. Eyes dark?”
“Yes.”
“Hair and beard turning grey?”
The detective nodded. “Well, Monsieur Poirot, what have you got to say to it all? Clear as daylight, eh?”
“On the contrary, most obscure.”
The Scotland Yard man looked pleased.
“Which gives me great hopes of solving it,” finished Poirot placidly.
“Eh?”
“I find it a good sign when a case is obscure. If a thing is clear as daylight, eh bien, mistrust it. Someone has made it so.”
Japp shook his head almost pityingly. “Well, each to their fancy. But it is not a bad thing to see your way clear ahead.”
“I do not see,” murmured Poirot. “I shut my eyes, and think.”
Japp sighed. “Well, you have got a clear week to think in.”
“And you will bring me any fresh developments that arise?”
“Certainly. That is in the bargain.”
“Seems a shame, does it not?” said Japp to me as I accompanied him to the door. “Like robbing a child.”
I could not help agreeing with a smile. I was still smiling as I re-entered the room.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot immediately. “You make fun of Papa Poirot, is it not so?” He shook his finger at me. “You do not trust his grey cells? Ah, do not be confused. Let us discuss this little problem, incomplete as yet, I admit, but already showing one or two points of interest.”
“The lake,” I said significantly.
“And even more than the lake, the boathouse.”
I looked sideways at Poirot. He was smiling in his most inscrutable fashion. I felt that, for the moment, it would be quite useless to question him further.
We heard nothing of Japp until the following evening, when he walked in about nine o’clock. I saw at once by his expression that he was bursting with news.
“Eh bien, my friend,” remarked Poirot. “All goes well? But do not tell me that you have discovered the body of Mr. Davenheim in your lake, because I shall not believe you.”
“We have not found the body, but we did find his clothes, the identical clothes he was wearing that day. What do you say to that?”
“Any other clothes missing from the house?”
“No, his valet is quite positive on that point. The rest of his wardrobe is intact. There is more. We have arrested Lowen. One of the maids, whose business it is to fasten the bedroom windows, declares that she saw Lowen coming towards the study through the rose garden about a quarter past six. That would be about ten minutes before he left the house.”
“What does he himself say to that?”
“Denied first of all that he had ever left the study. But the maid was positive, and he pretended afterwards that he had forgotten just stepping out of the window to examine an unusual species of rose. Rather a weak story. And there is fresh evidence against him come to light. Mr. Davenheim always wore a thick gold ring set with a solitaire diamond on the little finger of his right hand. Well, that ring was pawned in London on Saturday night by a man called Billy Kellett. He is already known to the police. It seems he tried to pawn the ring at no less than five different places, succeeded at the last one, got gloriously drunk on the proceeds, assaulted a policeman, and was run in in consequence. I went to Bow Street with Miller and saw him. He is sober enough now, and I do not mind admitting we pretty well frightened the life out of him, hinting he might be charged with murder. This is his yarn, and a very queer one it is.
“He was at Entfield races on Saturday, though I dare say scarf pins was his line of business rather than betting. Anyway, he had a bad day and was down on his luck. He was tramping along the road to Chingside and sat down in a ditch to rest just before he got into the village. A few minutes later he noticed a man coming along the road to the village, dark-complexioned gent with a big moustache, one of them city toffs, is his description of the man.
“Kellett was half concealed from the road by a heap of stones. Just before he got abreast of him, the man looked quickly up and down the road, and seeing it apparently deserted he took a small object from his pocket and threw it over the hedge. Then he went on towards the station. Now, the object he had thrown over the hedge had fallen with a slight chink which aroused the curiosity of the human derelict in the ditch. He investigated and, after a short search, discovered the ring. That is Kellett’s story. It is only fair to say that Lowen denies it utterly, and of course the word of a man like Kellett cannot be relied upon in the slightest. It is within the bounds of possibility that he met Davenheim in the lane and robbed and murdered him.”
Poirot shook his head. “Very improbable, mon ami. He had no means of disposing of the body. It would have been found by now. Secondly, the open way in which he pawned the ring makes it unlikely that he did murder to get it. Thirdly, your sneak-thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly, as he has been in prison since Saturday, it would be too much of a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a description of Lowen.”
Japp nodded. “I do not say you are not right. But all the same, you will not get a jury to take much note of a jailbird’s evidence. What seems odd to me is that Lowen could not find a cleverer way of disposing of the ring.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “Well, after all, if it were found in the neighbourhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself had dropped it.”
“But why remove it from the body at all?” I cried.
“There might be a reason for that,” said Japp. “Do you know that just beyond the lake, a little gate leads out on to the hill, and not three minutes walk brings you to what do you think? A lime kiln.”
“Good heavens,” I cried. “You mean that the lime which destroyed the body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring?”
“Exactly.”
“It seems to me,” I said, “that that explains everything. What a horrible crime.”
By common consent we both turned and looked at Poirot. He seemed lost in reflection, his brow knitted, as though with some supreme mental effort. I felt that at last his keen intellect was asserting itself. What would his first words be? We were not long left in doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude relaxed, and turning to Japp, he asked: “Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. and Mrs. Davenheim occupied the same bedroom?”
The question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment we both stared in silence. Then Japp burst into a laugh. “Good Lord, Monsieur Poirot, I thought you were coming out with something startling. As to your question, I am sure I do not know.”
“You could find out?” asked Poirot with curious persistence.
“Oh, certainly, if you really want to know.”
“Merci, mon ami. I should be obliged if you would make a point of it.”
Japp stared at him a few minutes longer, but Poirot seemed to have forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me and, murmuring, “Poor old fellow, war has been too much for him,” gently withdrew from the room.
As Poirot still seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper and amused myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend’s voice aroused me. He had come out of his reverie and was looking brisk and alert.
“Que faites-vous là, mon ami?”
“I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of interest in this affair.”
“You become methodical, at last,” said Poirot approvingly.
I concealed my pleasure. “Shall I read them to you?”
“By all means.”
I cleared my throat. “One. All the evidence points to Lowen having been the man who forced the safe. Two. He had a grudge against Davenheim. Three. He lied in his first statement that he had never left the study. Four. If you accept Billy Kellett’s story as true, Lowen is unmistakably implicated.”
I paused. “Well?” I asked, for I felt that I had put my finger on all the vital facts.
Poirot looked at me pityingly, shaking his head very gently. “Mon pauvre ami. But it is that you have not the gift. The important detail, you appreciate him never. Also, your reasoning is false.”
“How?”
“Let me take your four points. One. Mr. Lowen could not possibly know that he would have the chance to open the safe. He came for a business interview. He could not know beforehand that Mr. Davenheim would be absent posting a letter, and that he would consequently be alone in the study.”
“He might have seized his opportunity,” I suggested.
“And the tools? City gentlemen do not carry round housebreaker’s tools on the off chance. And one could not cut into that safe with a penknife, bien entendu.”
“Well, what about number two?”
“You say Lowen had a grudge against Mr. Davenheim. What you mean is that he had once or twice got the better of him. And presumably those transactions were entered into with the view of benefiting himself. In any case you do not as a rule bear a grudge against a man you have got the better of. It is more likely to be the other way about. Whatever grudge there might have been would have been on Mr. Davenheim’s side.”
“Well, you cannot deny that he lied about never having left the study?”
“No. But he may have been frightened. Remember, the missing man’s clothes had just been discovered in the lake. Of course, as usual, he would have done better to speak the truth.”
“And the fourth point?”
“I grant you that. If Kellett’s story is true, Lowen is undeniably implicated. That is what makes the affair so very interesting.”
“Then I did appreciate one vital fact?”
“Perhaps. But you have entirely overlooked the two most important points, the ones which undoubtedly hold the clue to the whole matter.”
“And pray, what are they?”
“One, the passion which has grown upon Mr. Davenheim in the last few years for buying jewellery. Two, his trip to Buenos Ayres last autumn.”
“Poirot, you are joking.”
“I am most serious. Ah, sacred thunder, but I hope Japp will not forget my little commission.”
But the detective, entering into the spirit of the joke, had remembered it so well that a telegram was handed to Poirot about eleven o’clock the next day. At his request I opened it and read it out. “Husband and wife have occupied separate rooms since last winter.”
“Aha,” cried Poirot. “And now we are in mid June. All is solved.”
I stared at him. “You have no moneys in the bank of Davenheim and Salmon, mon ami?”
“No,” I said, wondering. “Why?”
“Because I should advise you to withdraw it, before it is too late.”
“Why, what do you expect?”
“I expect a big smash in a few days, perhaps sooner. Which reminds me, we will return the compliment of a dépêche to Japp. A pencil, I pray you, and a form. Voilà. Advise you to withdraw any money deposited with firm in question. That will intrigue him, the good Japp. His eyes will open wide, wide. He will not comprehend in the slightest, until tomorrow, or the next day.”
I remained sceptical, but the morrow forced me to render tribute to my friend’s remarkable powers. In every paper was a huge headline telling of the sensational failure of the Davenheim bank. The disappearance of the famous financier took on a totally different aspect in the light of the revelation of the financial affairs of the bank.
Before we were halfway through breakfast, the door flew open and Japp rushed in. In his left hand was a paper, in his right was Poirot’s telegram, which he banged down on the table in front of my friend.
“How did you know, Monsieur Poirot? How the blazes could you know?”
Poirot smiled placidly at him. “Ah, mon ami, after your wire, it was a certainty. From the commencement, see you, it struck me that the safe burglary was somewhat remarkable. Jewels, ready money, bearer bonds, all so conveniently arranged for whom? Well, the good Monsieur Davenheim was of those who look after Number One, as your saying goes. It seemed almost certain that it was arranged for himself. Then his passion of late years for buying jewellery. How simple. The funds he embezzled he converted into jewels, very likely replacing them in turn with paste duplicates, and so he put away in a safe place, under another name, a considerable fortune to be enjoyed all in good time when everyone has been thrown off the track. His arrangements completed, he makes an appointment with Mr. Lowen, who has been imprudent enough in the past to cross the great man once or twice, drills a hole in the safe, leaves orders that the guest is to be shown into the study, and walks out of the house, where?”
Poirot stopped and stretched out his hand for another boiled egg. He frowned. “It is really insupportable,” he murmured, “that every hen lays an egg of a different size. What symmetry can there be on the breakfast table? At least they should sort them in dozens at the shop.”
“Never mind the eggs,” said Japp impatiently. “Let them lay them square if they like. Tell us where our customer went to when he left The Cedars, that is, if you know.”
“Eh bien, he went to his hiding place. Ah, this Monsieur Davenheim, there may be some malformation in his grey cells, but they are of the first quality.”
“Do you know where he is hiding?”
“Certainly. It is most ingenious.”
“For the Lord’s sake, tell us, then.”
Poirot gently collected every fragment of shell from his plate, placed them in the egg cup, and reversed the empty eggshell on top of them. This little operation concluded, he smiled on the neat effect and then beamed affectionately on us both.
“Come, my friends, you are men of intelligence. Ask yourselves the question which I asked myself. If I were this man, where should I hide? Hastings, what do you say?”
“Well,” I said, “I am rather inclined to think I would not do a bolt at all. I would stay in London, in the heart of things, travel by tubes and buses. Ten to one I would never be recognized. There is safety in a crowd.”
Poirot turned inquiringly to Japp.
“I do not agree. Get clear away at once. That is the only chance. I would have had plenty of time to prepare things beforehand. I would have a yacht waiting, with steam up, and I would be off to one of the most out-of-the-way corners of the world before the hue and cry began.”
We both looked at Poirot. “What do you say, monsieur?”
For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted across his face.
“My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should hide? In a prison.”
“What?”
“You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison, so you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there.”
“What do you mean?”
“You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless I think that if you took her to Bow Street and confronted her with the man Billy Kellett, she would recognize him. In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived.”
“Billy Kellett? But he is known to the police.”
“Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Ayres last autumn. He was creating the character of Billy Kellett, doing three months, so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only”
“Yes?”
“Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy, it invites detection. He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos Ayres, he and Mrs. Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure. Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He went to the boathouse, donned his tramp clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him.”
“It is impossible,” murmured Japp.
“Ask Madame,” said my friend, smiling.
The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He opened it, and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow puckered.
“Ah, sacré. But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse. Ce pauvre Japp. Ah, an idea. We will have a little dinner, we three. That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child. Mille tonnerres. Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?”
Chapter II — Davenheim: The Man Who Hides in Prison
The solution to the Davenheim case, as Poirot explained it, hinged on a single observation that no one else had made. When a man plans to disappear, he must decide in advance where he will hide. The obvious choices, a foreign country or a distant city, are the ones the police will check first. A hiding place must therefore be somewhere the police will not think to look, and there is no place less likely to be searched for a missing banker than a prison cell.
Poirot had reasoned that Davenheim, as a man of method, would have prepared for this eventuality long before he absconded. The trip to Buenos Ayres, ostensibly a business journey, had been the cover for a period of preparation during which Davenheim had constructed the identity of Billy Kellett, a small-time thief with a police record. By the time of the actual disappearance, the character was already established. Kellett had served three months in prison the previous autumn, was known to the local police, and could move through the low end of the city without attracting attention.
When Poirot finally confronted the situation, he noted that the ring pawned by Kellett was the same ring Davenheim wore on his little finger. He noted that the maid who reported seeing Lowen in the rose garden had also noted a figure moving toward the side of the house. He noted that the jewellery Davenheim had been buying at such a pace over the last few years was not a hobby but a method of converting embezzled funds into portable assets. And he noted, most tellingly, that Davenheim and his wife had been sleeping in separate rooms since his supposed return from Buenos Ayres.
The last fact was the one that completed the picture. Davenheim, having constructed a false identity, could not afford to sleep next to his wife. A false beard cannot be worn through the night. He had therefore arranged separate rooms, on the pretext that his wife’s health required it, and had maintained the separation ever since.
The five-pound note that arrived the following day was Japp’s payment of the bet. Poirot, who was both pleased and a little ashamed of the ease with which the case had resolved, spent it on a dinner for the three of us.
Chapter III — The Italian Nobleman: A Dying Telephone Call
Dr. Hawker was a near neighbour of ours, and it was his habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was an ardent admirer. On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half past eight and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crime. About a quarter of an hour later, the door of our sitting room flew open, and a distracted woman hurried in.
“Oh, doctor, you are wanted. Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed.”
I recognised her as Dr. Hawker’s housekeeper, Miss Rider. The doctor was a bachelor and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on incoherence.
“What terrible voice? Who is it, and what is the trouble?”
“It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it, and a voice spoke. Help, it said. Doctor, help. They have killed me. Then it sort of tailed away. Who is speaking? I said. Who is speaking? Then I got a reply, just a whisper it seemed, Foscatine, something like that, Regent’s Court.”
The doctor uttered an exclamation. “Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent’s Court. I must go at once. What can have happened?”
“A patient of yours?” asked Poirot.
“I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless” He hesitated.
“I perceive the thought in your mind,” said Poirot, smiling. “I shall be delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi.”
Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly pressed for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon bowling along in the direction of Regent’s Park. Regent’s Court was a new block of flats just off St. John’s Wood Road. They had only recently been built and contained the latest service devices.
There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift bell impatiently, and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply.
“Flat Eleven. Count Foscatini. There has been an accident there, I understand.”
The man stared at him. “First I have heard of it. Mr. Graves, that is Count Foscatini’s man, went out about half an hour ago, and he said nothing.”
“Is the Count alone in the flat?”
“No, sir, he has got two gentlemen dining with him.”
“What are they like?” I asked eagerly.
We were in the lift now, ascending rapidly to the second floor, on which Flat Eleven was situated.
“I did not see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were foreign gentlemen.”
He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing. Number Eleven was opposite to us. The doctor rang the bell. There was no reply, and we could hear no sound from within. The doctor rang again and again. We could hear the bell trilling within, but no sign of life rewarded us.
“This is getting serious,” muttered the doctor. He turned to the lift attendant. “Is there any pass-key to this door?”
“There is one in the porter’s office downstairs.”
“Get it, then, and, look here, I think you had better send for the police.”
Poirot approved with a nod of the head.
The man returned shortly, and with him came the manager.
“Will you tell me, gentlemen, what is the meaning of all this?”
“Certainly. I received a telephone message from Count Foscatini stating that he had been attacked and was dying. You can understand that we must lose no time, if we are not already too late.”
The manager produced the key without more ado, and we all entered the flat. We passed first into a small square lounge hall. A door on the right of it was half open. The manager indicated it with a nod.
“The dining room.”
Dr. Hawker led the way. We followed close on his heels. As we entered the room I gave a gasp. The round table in the centre bore the remains of a meal. Three chairs were pushed back, as though their occupants had just risen. In the corner, to the right of the fireplace, was a big writing table, and sitting at it was a man, or what had been a man. His right hand still grasped the base of the telephone, but he had fallen forward, struck down by a terrific blow on the head from behind. The weapon was not far to seek. A marble statuette stood where it had been hurriedly put down, the base of it stained with blood.
The doctor’s examination did not take a minute. “Stone dead. Must have been almost instantaneous. I wonder he even managed to telephone. It will be better not to move him until the police arrive.”
On the manager’s suggestion we searched the flat, but the result was a foregone conclusion. It was not likely that the murderers would be concealed there when all they had to do was to walk out.
We came back to the dining room. Poirot had not accompanied us in our tour. I found him studying the centre table with close attention. I joined him. It was a well-polished round mahogany table. A bowl of roses decorated the centre, and white lace mats reposed on the gleaming surface. There was a dish of fruit, but the three dessert plates were untouched. There were three coffee cups with remains of coffee in them, two black, one with milk. All three men had taken port, and the decanter, half full, stood before the centre plate. One of the men had smoked a cigar, the other two cigarettes. A tortoiseshell and silver box, holding cigars and cigarettes, stood open upon the table.
I enumerated all these facts to myself, but I was forced to admit that they did not shed any brilliant light on the situation. I wondered what Poirot saw in them to make him so intent. I asked him.
“Mon ami,” he replied, “you miss the point. I am looking for something that I do not see.”
“What is that?”
“A mistake, even a little mistake, on the part of the murderer.”
He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and shook his head.
“Monsieur,” he said to the manager, “explain to me, I pray, your system of serving meals here.”
The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall. “This is the service lift. It runs to the kitchens at the top of the building. You order through this telephone, and the dishes are sent down in the lift, one course at a time. The dirty plates and dishes are sent up in the same manner. No domestic worries, you understand, and at the same time you avoid the wearying publicity of always dining in a restaurant.”
Poirot nodded. “Then the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the kitchen. You permit that I mount there?”
“Oh, certainly, if you like. Roberts, the lift man, will take you up and introduce you. But I am afraid you will not find anything that is of any use. They are handling hundreds of plates and dishes, and they will be all lumped together.”
Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens and questioned the man who had taken the order from Flat Eleven.
“The order was given from the à la carte menu, for three,” he explained. “Soup julienne, filet de sole normande, tournedos of beef, and a rice soufflé. What time? Just about eight o’clock, I should say. No, I am afraid the plates and dishes have been all washed up by now. Unfortunate. You were thinking of finger-prints, I suppose?”
“Not exactly,” said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. “I am more interested in Count Foscatini’s appetite. Did he partake of every dish?”
“Yes, but of course I cannot say how much of each he ate. The plates were all soiled, and the dishes empty, that is to say, with the exception of the rice soufflé. There was a fair amount of that left.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.
As we descended to the flat again he remarked in a low tone: “We have decidedly to do with a man of method.”
“Do you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?”
“The latter was undoubtedly an orderly gentleman. After imploring help and announcing his approaching demise, he carefully hung up the telephone receiver.”
I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries gave me the glimmering of an idea.
“You suspect poison?” I breathed. “The blow on the head was a blind.”
Poirot merely smiled.
Chapter IV — The Italian Nobleman: The Dinner That Was Never Eaten
We re-entered the flat to find the local inspector of police had arrived with two constables. He was inclined to resent our appearance, but Poirot calmed him with the mention of our Scotland Yard friend, Inspector Japp, and we were accorded a grudging permission to remain. It was a lucky thing we were, for we had not been back five minutes before an agitated middle-aged man came rushing into the room with every appearance of grief and agitation.
This was Graves, valet-butler to the late Count Foscatini. The story he had to tell was a sensational one.
On the previous morning, two gentlemen had called to see his master. They were Italians, and the elder of the two, a man of about forty, gave his name as Signor Ascanio. The younger was a well-dressed lad of about twenty-four.
Count Foscatini was evidently prepared for their visit and immediately sent Graves out upon some trivial errand. Here the man paused and hesitated in his story. In the end, however, he admitted that, curious as to the purport of the interview, he had not obeyed immediately, but had lingered about endeavouring to hear something of what was going on.
The conversation was carried on in so low a tone that he was not as successful as he had hoped. But he gathered enough to make it clear that some kind of monetary proposition was being discussed, and that the basis of it was a threat. The discussion was anything but amicable. In the end, Count Foscatini raised his voice slightly, and the listener heard these words clearly: I have no time to argue further now, gentlemen. If you will dine with me tomorrow night at eight o’clock, we will resume the discussion.
Afraid of being discovered listening, Graves had then hurried out to do his master’s errand. This evening the two men had arrived punctually at eight. During dinner they had talked of indifferent matters: politics, the weather, the theatrical world. When Graves had placed the port upon the table and brought in the coffee his master told him that he might have the evening off.
“Was that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?” asked the inspector.
“No, sir, it was not. That is what made me think it must be some business of a very unusual kind that he was going to discuss with these gentlemen.”
That finished Graves’s story. He had gone out about eight thirty, and meeting a friend, had accompanied him to the Metropolitan Music Hall in Edgware Road.
Nobody had seen the two men leave, but the time of the murder was fixed clearly enough at 8.47. A small clock on the writing table had been swept off by Foscatini’s arm and had stopped at that hour, which agreed with Miss Rider’s telephone summons.
The police surgeon had made his examination of the body, and it was now lying on the couch. I saw the face for the first time, the olive complexion, the long nose, the luxuriant black moustache, and the full red lips drawn back from the dazzlingly white teeth. Not altogether a pleasant face.
“Well,” said the inspector, refastening his notebook. “The case seems clear enough. The only difficulty will be to lay our hands on this Signor Ascanio. I suppose his address is not in the dead man’s pocket-book by any chance?”
As Poirot had said, the late Foscatini was an orderly man. Neatly written in small precise handwriting was the inscription: Signor Paolo Ascanio, Grosvenor Hotel.
The inspector busied himself with the telephone, then turned to us with a grin. “Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the Continent. Well, gentlemen, that is about all we can do here. It is a bad business, but straightforward enough. One of these Italian vendetta things, as likely as not.”
Thus airily dismissed, we found our way downstairs. Dr. Hawker was full of excitement.
“Like the beginning of a novel, eh? Real exciting stuff. Would not believe it if you read about it.”
Poirot did not speak. He was very thoughtful. All the evening he had hardly opened his lips.
“What says the master detective, eh?” asked Hawker, clapping him on the back. “Nothing to work your grey cells over this time.”
“You think not?”
“What could there be?”
“Well, for example, there is the window.”
“The window? But it was fastened. Nobody could have got out or in that way. I noticed it specially.”
“And why were you able to notice it?”
The doctor looked puzzled. Poirot hastened to explain. “It is to the curtains I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that. And then there was the coffee. It was very black coffee.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Very black,” repeated Poirot. “In conjunction with that let us remember that very little of the rice soufflé was eaten, and we get, what?”
“Moonshine,” laughed the doctor. “You are pulling my leg.”
“Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly serious.”
“I do not know what you are getting at, all the same,” I confessed. “You do not suspect the manservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang and put some dope in the coffee. I suppose they will test his alibi?”
“Without doubt, my friend, but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me.”
“You think he has an alibi?”
“That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be enlightened on that point.”
The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant with succeeding events. Signor Ascanio was arrested and charged with the murder of Count Foscatini. When arrested, he denied knowing the Count, and declared he had never been near Regent’s Court either on the evening of the crime or on the previous morning. The younger man had disappeared entirely. Signor Ascanio had arrived alone at the Grosvenor Hotel from the Continent two days before the murder. All efforts to trace the second man failed.
Ascanio, however, was not sent for trial. No less a personage than the Italian Ambassador himself came forward and testified at the police court proceedings that Ascanio had been with him at the Embassy from eight till nine that evening. The prisoner was discharged. Naturally a lot of people thought that the crime was a political one and was being deliberately hushed up.
Poirot had taken a keen interest in all these points. Nevertheless, I was somewhat surprised when he suddenly informed me one morning that he was expecting a visitor at eleven o’clock, and that that visitor was none other than Ascanio himself.
“He wishes to consult you?”
“Du tout, Hastings. I wish to consult him.”
“What about?”
“The Regent’s Court murder.”
“You are going to prove that he did it?”
“A man cannot be tried twice for murder, Hastings. Endeavour to have the common sense. Ah, that is our friend’s ring.”
A few minutes later Signor Ascanio was ushered in, a small thin man with a secretive and furtive glance in his eyes. He remained standing, darting suspicious glances from one to the other of us.
“Monsieur Poirot?”
My little friend tapped himself gently on the chest. “Be seated, signor. You received my note. I am determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. In some small measure you can aid me. Let us commence. You, in company with a friend, visited the late Count Foscatini on the morning of Tuesday the ninth.”
The Italian made an angry gesture. “I did nothing of the sort. I have sworn in court.”
“Précisément, and I have a little idea that you have sworn falsely.”
“You threaten me? Bah. I have nothing to fear from you. I have been acquitted.”
“Exactly. And as I am not an imbecile, it is not with the gallows I threaten you, but with publicity. Publicity. I see that you do not like the word. I had an idea that you would not. My little ideas, you know, they are very valuable to me. Come, signor, your only chance is to be frank with me. I do not ask to know whose indiscretions brought you to England. I know this much, you came for the especial purpose of seeing Count Foscatini.”
“He was not a count,” growled the Italian.
“I have already noted the fact that his name does not appear in the Almanach de Gotha. Never mind, the title of count is often useful in the profession of blackmailing.”
“I suppose I might as well be frank. You seem to know a good deal.”
“I have employed my grey cells to some advantage. Come, Signor Ascanio, you visited the dead man on the Tuesday morning. That is so, is it not?”
“Yes, but I never went there on the following evening. There was no need. I will tell you all. Certain information concerning a man of great position in Italy had come into this scoundrel’s possession. He demanded a big sum of money in return for the papers. I came over to England to arrange the matter. I called upon him by appointment that morning. One of the young secretaries of the Embassy was with me. The Count was more reasonable than I had hoped, although even then the sum of money I paid him was a huge one.”
“Pardon, how was it paid?”
“In Italian notes of comparatively small denomination. I paid over the money then and there. He handed me the incriminating papers. I never saw him again.”
“Why did you not say all this when you were arrested?”
“In my delicate position I was forced to deny any association with the man.”
“And how do you account for the events of the evening, then?”
“I can only think that someone must have deliberately impersonated me. I understand that no money was found in the flat.”
Poirot looked at him and shook his head. “Strange,” he murmured. “We all have the little grey cells. And so few of us know how to use them. Good morning, Signor Ascanio. I believe your story. It is very much as I had imagined. But I had to make sure.”
After bowing his guest out, Poirot returned to his armchair and smiled at me.
“Let us hear M. le Capitaine Hastings on the case?”
“Well, I suppose Ascanio is right, somebody impersonated him.”
“Never, never will you use the brains the good God has given you. Recall to yourself some words I uttered after leaving the flat that night. I referred to the window curtains not being drawn. We are in the month of June. It is still light at eight o’clock. The light is failing by half past. Ça vous dit quelque chose? I perceive a struggling impression that you will arrive some day. Now let us continue. The coffee was, as I said, very black. Count Foscatini’s teeth were magnificently white. Coffee stains the teeth. We reason from that that Count Foscatini did not drink any coffee. Yet there was coffee in all three cups. Why should anyone pretend Count Foscatini had drunk coffee when he had not done so?”
I shook my head, utterly bewildered.
“Come, I will help you. What evidence have we that Ascanio and his friend, or two men posing as them, ever came to the flat that night? Nobody saw them go in. Nobody saw them go out. We have the evidence of one man and of a host of inanimate objects.”
“You mean?”
“I mean knives and forks and plates and empty dishes. Ah, but it was a clever idea. Graves is a thief and a scoundrel, but what a man of method. He overhears a portion of the conversation in the morning, enough to realize that Ascanio will be in awkward position to defend himself. The following evening, about eight o’clock, he tells his master he is wanted at the telephone. Foscatini sits down, stretches out his hand to the telephone, and from behind Graves strikes him down with the marble figure. Then quickly to the service telephone, dinner for three. It comes, he lays the table, dirties the plates, knives, and forks. But he has to get rid of the food too. Not only is he a man of brain, he has a resolute and capacious stomach. But after eating three tournedos, the rice soufflé is too much for him. He even smokes a cigar and two cigarettes to carry out the illusion. Ah, but it was magnificently thorough. Then, having moved on the hands of the clock to 8.47, he smashes it and stops it. The one thing he does not do is to draw the curtains. But if there had been a real dinner party the curtains would have been drawn as soon as the light began to fail. Then he hurries out, mentioning the guests to the lift man in passing. He hurries to a telephone box, and as near as possible to 8.47 rings up the doctor with his master’s dying cry. So successful is his idea that no one ever inquires if a call was put through from Flat Eleven at that time.”
“Except Hercule Poirot, I suppose?” I said sarcastically.
“Not even Hercule Poirot,” said my friend with a smile. “I am about to inquire now. I had to prove my point to you first. But you will see, I shall be right. And then Japp, to whom I have already given a hint, will be able to arrest the respectable Graves. I wonder how much of the money he has spent.”
Poirot was right. He always is, confound him.
Historical Context — The Serviced Flat and the Invisible Servant
Regent’s Court, the setting of the second story in this Playbook, belongs to a specific kind of early twentieth-century London housing that was just beginning to appear when Christie wrote: the serviced apartment block. These buildings offered residents the amenities of a private home without the staff required to run one. A hatch in the wall opened onto a service lift, meals could be ordered by telephone, and dishes were returned to a shared kitchen on the top floor. For a man like Count Foscatini, who valued privacy and entertained irregularly, the serviced flat was ideal. For a murderer like Graves, it was even better. The building was designed to make the residents invisible to one another, and the system that delivered dinner was the same system that could be used to stage a dinner that had never happened. The service lift, the telephone, and the undrawn curtains are all details that belong to a particular architectural moment, and Christie understood their narrative potential. A crime that would have been impossible in a Georgian townhouse is perfectly plausible in an early twentieth-century service flat.
Original Value — The Detective Who Will Not Move from His Chair
The final Playbook of this series brings together two stories that make explicit what has been implicit throughout: Poirot does not need to leave his chair to solve a case. In “The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim,” he takes Japp’s bet that he cannot solve the case without moving from his seat, and he wins it by doing precisely that. He does not visit The Cedars, does not examine the lake, does not interview the servants. He sits in his rooms, asks three questions, and produces an answer that no one else has considered. In “The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman,” he does visit the scene of the crime, but the crucial observation, the undrawn curtains, is made in a single glance and requires no further investigation. What distinguishes Poirot from the police inspectors he works alongside is not that he sees more, but that he knows what to look for. Japp’s Miller has eyes that see everything, and Poirot has nothing but the little grey cells. The series closes with a confident demonstration that the second is worth more than the first. The detective who must rush from place to place is always one step behind the crime. The detective who can sit still has already solved it.
Series Conclusion
This Playbook concludes the Poirot Investigates series. Across five installments, Poirot has solved ten cases, ranging from a stolen diamond in a Brighton hotel to the kidnapping of the Prime Minister of England, and has done so by the same method in each: by identifying the one fact that no one else has noticed, and by trusting the little grey cells over the evidence of the eyes. The final story leaves him exactly where he began, sitting in his rooms with a cup of chocolate and a plate of eggs, considering the small asymmetries of the breakfast table. Nothing has changed. Nothing needs to. The work continues.
You Might Also Want to Read
The Valley of Fear — The Warning — Sherlock Holmes confronts a conspiracy that reaches across the Atlantic.
Nick Carter at Western Union Junction — Playbook 1 · The Telegram from Nowhere — A classic American dime-novel detective adventure.
The Leader’s Compass — Essential Leadership Principles — A framework for decision-making and influence in any organisation.
Management Studies — Chapter 2 — Foundations of management theory and practice.
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